Obligations To The Lambs
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: Clarice faces the threat of a new Red Dragon who wants her for a sacifice. Help comes in the form of two men acquainted with the original case. First story in the 'Wishes' trilogy.
1. Promises of a Madman

Something different, dear ones. I thank you all for sticking with me through the first two full fledged stories, and hopefully through the Interludes, as I do not yet know where those are going to go. Here, I've decided to stray back to Clarice. My take on the years between SOTL and Hannibal. Book canon, at least I'll try to do it that way. So much detail to work with there. I do so hope you will enjoy. Ta-ta.

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Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect.

-Margaret Mitchell

*****

Five years. Five long almost unbearable years of being the perfect FBI agent, the pride of the agency. Hmmmph. That didn't really help a lot. Jack Crawford had worked his magic and managed to bring her into Behavioral Sciences, even though she was short on the experience side. Her claim to fame, the capture of Jame Gumb, and her interviews with Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Lecter. She shivered when that name came into her thoughts. There were times when she would wake up in the middle of the night, feeling as if she had just walked out of the dungeon once again. She didn't even have to try to summon up the first vivd mental image of him. Alone, behind the thick metal bars and the stout nylon net. Standing there, in the asylum issued jumpsuit, looking imperially slim. Dark head sleek under the lights as the maroon eyes drew her in. The mental image always summoned the voice with it, she could not have one without the other.

_"Good morning."_ The cultured voice with the metallic rasp of disuse underlying it.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Noted psychologist and sociopath, murdering a number of people by the time the Jame Gumb case had been closed. In that time, she had allowed him to study her, like a bug in a bell jar. And then, he dissected her, carefully showing her what he did piece by piece. Five years ago, and he still affected her like this.

He had left her with a letter, and she picks it up now, looking at it. Quietly, peer over her shoulder and see what he has to say to her.

__

Well, Clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming?

You owe me a piece of information, you know, and that's what I'd like.

An ad in the national edition of the Times_ and in the _International Herald-Tribune_ on the first of any month will be fine. Better put it in the _China Mail_ as well._

I won't be surprised if the answer is yes and no. The lambs will stop for now. But, Clarice, you judges yourself with all the mercy of the dungeon scales at Threave; you'll have to earn it again and again, the blessed silence. Because it's the plight that drives you, seeing the plight, and the plight will not end, ever.

I have no plans to call on you, Clarice, the world being more interesting with you in it. Be sure you extend me the same courtesy.

She sighs now, as we continue along with her to the next segment of the letter. She feels something resembling happiness for the doctor. Not true happiness, only resembling it. Read on, dear one.

_I have windows._

Orion is above the horizon now, and near it Jupiter, brighter than it will ever be again before the year 2000. (I have no intention of telling you the time and how high it is.) But I expect you can see it too. Some of our stars are the same.

Clarice

.

Hannibal Lecter

A sigh and a hand run over her eyes always accompanies the reading of the letter. Carefully, she folds it and slips it back into the linen envelope it arrived in. She traces the delicate copperplate script that spells out simply _Clarice_. He has no plans to call on her, but she finds herself during times like these, desperately wishing that he would. It comforts her slightly that she did not receive the same parting treatment from him as Will Graham did. She had finally met with Graham late last summer. She could stand and face cannibalistic murderers, yet she had drawn back at the sight of Graham's face. Putting it as bluntly as Mr. Crawford had, he looked like a damn Picasso drew him. Lecter had turned Francis Dolarhyde on to him, being attacked at his own home in the Keys.

It stuns Clarice to think of it, so she doesn't often, but she knows that Lecter could have done the same thing to her with Jame Gumb. She had barely made it out alive without the good doctor assisting Buffalo Bill. It was not a comforting thought to think of him turned against her. Graham was kind and courteous when she had met him, congratulating her on the case. Before he had left he had told her that she'd better hope to remain on Lecter's good side.

Good side. Well, the man had made a promise not to call on her. But how much is the promise of a madman worth?

*****


	2. The Necessary Order of Things

Ooooh. One mustn't forget the disclaimers. One day I will learn to put them in the first chapter. One day. As always, the dear characters of Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Special Agent Clarice Starling are not mine, I am only absconding with them for a time, for my own diabolical purposes. To add to the list this time are Jack Crawford, Will Graham, Paul Krendler, Jame Gumb, and Francis Dolarhyde. All aforementioned characters are property of Thomas Harris. Our yet unnamed killer, his victims, and assorted cops are mine. As always, they will be up for rent. (I think I got everyone accounted for.) Do enjoy dear ones, but fair warning, there may be gore in future chapters. Okey dokey then, here we go.

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Darkness. The sound of a knife against a sharpening stone cuts through the silence. In the kitchen shadows someone hones the knife blade, testing it against a phone bill left laying on the counter. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window above the sink a man examines the knife edge. Satisfied, he returns the sharpening stone to the drawer he removed it from. The phone bill is also aligned on the counter precisely where it was before it met with the blade. He is a very neat and conscientious man, bowing to order, as order was what ruled his life.

The upstairs hall is quiet and dark, much warmer from the rising heat of the fireplace. He is careful to make sure the lambskin gloves he wears are snug. Careful measured steps, counting as he goes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. He stops at seven, hand reaching for the brass doorknob, turning it ever so slowly. The door opens on well oiled hinges and he steps into the room. A woman lies asleep in the bed, chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. He waits until his own breathing pattern matches hers. Perfect harmony. He takes the five steps to the bed, the knife seemingly floats in the darkness, as he wears all black. The lamp on the bedside table has a pull chain, which he tugs, illuminating the twenty-five watt bulb under the shade. The woman moans and rolls towards the sudden light, eyes opening as a hand reaches from beneath the covers to turn it off. The seeking hand meets with resistance and her eyes open fully. Her mouth opens to scream but is silenced as a gloved hand clamps over it. The knife glints in her eyes, unable to tear her focus away from it. A smile is playing on his lips as he studies her fear.

"Hello." his voice is soft and mellifluous, not what one should expect of a killer. She whimpers and the knife slices clean across her throat. He lays it on the bed next to her as he turns to leave the room.

"Goodbye."

*****

Morning's first light rouses Special Agent Clarice Starling from the comfort and protection of her bed. She makes her way through the morning routine, eyes half open. As with much of America, she is never truly awake until she has had her first cup of coffee. The duplex is silent as she makes her way into the kitchen, still damp hair wrapped in a towel. A morning smile as she scoops the coffee into the filter. Mr. Coffee, a woman's best friend. The ringing phone almost makes her jump and she fixes it with a glare. Way too early for anyone to be calling, she tells herself, taking the receiver from the wall unit. Maybe its someone telling me that I just won a million dollars.

"Starling." a beat of silence before the caller replies.

"Starling, its Crawford. Did I wake you? I'm sorry if I did." she can tell already that he truly is sorry if he had awakened her. Unfortunately, she had been up for an hour already.

"No sir." she replied, the accent of pure West Virginia was very evident in her voice. Damn the early morning, it always was nice to talk to the big boss and sound like a hick. "How can I help you, sir?"

A shuffling of papers as he speaks, someone else talking to him in his office. "Starling, our guy struck again last night. I need you down here as soon as possible." Our guy. Starling's eyes lit up and the cobwebs were instantly cleared from her head. Our guy, called such since he had yet to acquire a nickname form either the police or the media. 

"Yes sir. I'll be there shortly."

"Good." It was all he offered as a goodbye as he hung up his phone. Starling returned the receiver to its wall unit and looked at the coffee and filter in her hand. Hot damn. That brought the number of murders to four, and they were still no closer to catching this guy. She shoved the filter into the Mr. Coffee and turned it on, leaving it to do its work as she trotted back to her room. By the time she returned, properly attired for work at the FBI, the coffee was ready and she poured it into a travel mug from a nearby gas station. Grabbing her keys from the rack on the wall, she left the house.

The engine in the '86 Ford Escort turned over quickly and whined, reminding her that she needed to take it in once again to have it looked at. While her Pinto had been trusty, the Escort seemed to be determined to see how many problems it could create for her. She let it idle for a few moments, hoping the whine would go away. It did, and she dropped the stick shift into reverse. She would've preferred an automatic, but was relegated to the five-speed sub-compact after the Pinto died. Fully out of the duplex's driveway, she stomps the clutch and drops the powder blue car into first. While it wouldn't set any land speed records, the little car had slight pick-up and she floored it as she pulled out of the cul-de-sac, earning a glare from one of her neighbors.

*****

Jack Crawford's office is very different from the hole in the basement she is relegated to. Not better, since it is painted with what seems to be leftover paint from a battleship hull, just different. He is standing behind his desk as she enters. He has the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the caller, and he waves for her to take a seat. She does so, smoothing the hem of her skirt over her knees, hands then placed neatly in her lap. The handset is replaced in its cradle and he takes a seat behind the cluttered desk. Starling watches as he dry swallows a couple multi-vitamins then pulls a folder from a stack on the far right side.

"Julie Simms." he opens the folder then turns it to face her, a photocopy of an enlarged yearbook photo smiles from the up from the folder. He continues his recitation as Clarice examines the picture. "Age twenty three. She was found this morning when her boyfriend came home. Death resulted from a cut throat."

"Same approximate height and weight as the others?" she asks, not looking up from the picture.

"Yes. Five foot three inches tall, one hundred fifteen pounds. All have been under one twenty five. Starling, I want you to go down and look through her house. See if you can turn up anything, _anything_, that would connect her to the others. We're still bone dry on the connection."

"Yes sir." she replied. She knew that this was her cue to leave, and she reached to take the case folder with her. She was to the door when he spoke again.

"Starling, I pray that this case won't turn out like the last one."

"Yes sir." she wondered if he meant her almost getting killed by Jame Gumb or the interest Dr. Lecter had taken in her. Both, she decided, would be nice to avoid on this one.

*****


	3. Intrusions on a Day

Thank you so much for the kind reviews. First and foremost, I promise not to kill off Clarice in this one. Since it does appear in an earlier timeline in the Emily/Lecter universe, she'd have to be a zombie or another similar undead character in order for me to kill her off again. LOL I believe you can only die once, dear ones. The nice PG-13 rating will probably change once the story gets going, since I have promised gore. I do so hope you enjoy. 

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Afternoon, halfway around the world. A young woman stands in the Piazza della Signoria, staring up at the soaring crenellations that mark the Palazzo Vecchio. Her dark hair catches the light as it hangs straight down her back, strands of it caught floating on the passing breeze. She wears a pair of black dress slacks and a silk blouse. In her hands is a sketchpad, on which she is drawing with a piece of charcoal. She looks from pad to the Palazzo and uses the pinkie of her right hand to smudges a line. Her eyes are intense as she completes her sketch, ignoring the curious stares from other tourists that mill around her in the Piazza. A shadow comes over the pad and her lips sink into a frown as she turns to face whoever dares to take away her light.

"Excuse me, but…" she turns green eyes flaring and prepares to assault the rude person. She finds herself looking at a fine silk suit, protected by a grey overcoat. She is shorter than most people and often seems to forget the inconvenience of her height. Not losing an ounce of fury, she looks up to glare at the man. Her mind instantly seeks out details and she blinks, saving them to memory. The face is slightly shadowed by a white fedora and the eyes, which she would truly like to see, are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The nose is rather plump for his face but his red lips are curved into a smile. All of this happens in the time she pauses in her sentence, not more than a few heartbeats. "But you sir, are blocking my light."

He nods slightly and steps to her side, no longer blocking the sun's rays from her. She expects him to be like every other staring idiot she has had to shoo off today, and is surprised when he begins to apologize.

"Forgive me. I only wanted to see this." the left index finger is laid on the charcoal sketch as he speaks. She notices the metallic rasp of the voice, wonders what would cause it to be in such a state of disuse. "You have a good eye for detail."

Flattery. The one thing in the world she cannot handle. A blush works its way into her cheeks as she replies. "Thank you, sir. I'm afraid I'm not that wonderful." Self-depreciation, her common defense for everything. The man is shaking his head at her. His hand clasps the sketchpad gently.

"May I?" 

"Of course." she bites her tongue, resisting the urge to again apologize for the artwork contained within. He carefully turns the pages, seeing quick studies of many of Florence's beautiful buildings. The drawing of the Ponte Vecchio bridges is very well done, and she has begun to add color to it. He nods and hands the sketchpad back to her.

"How old are you?"

How old am I? "Twenty four, sir."

He removes his sunglasses as he asks his next question, and she is startled by his eyes. "Ahhh. Tell me, have you ever seen the Duomo from the Belvedere?" 

*****

The house was typical of a neat freak Clarice Starling decided upon entering. The linoleum floors sparkled as if they received a washing every day. If she ever though Ardelia was bad, this woman had her beat hands down. She walked through the house, stepping past other agents and the local law enforcement officials. The knife used in the murder had been taken form the kitchen. Well, he doesn't bring his murder weapon with him, she mused as she looked at the cut phone bill. Makes it harder for something from the crime scene to be placed with him. Julie Simms had a fully stocked kitchen and looked as if she enjoyed cooking. The book laying on the counter caught Starling's eye and she stopped to look at it. Alexandre Dumas' _Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine_. She had seen it before, in Dr. Lecter's cell.

"God dammit." she hissed under her breath. The memory of the man dogged her everywhere. One of the local cops in the kitchen looked up at her.

"Something wrong, Agent?" he asked. Clarice looked at him. He was young. She was once that young, and then she had met Lecter and Buffalo Bill. She shook her head and left the kitchen without further reply.

*****

The master bedroom was quiet as Starling entered it, having shooed everyone else out. She needed the silence to work in, and she paused just inside the door, looking about the room. It was pale in coloring. The walls were a bright white, complementing the pastel yellow curtains that hung over the windows. The curtains were sheer, and they billowed slightly in the breeze from the open windows. The bed was something that had obviously come form Pottery Barn or some other such chic furniture place. It was white, and two matching tables sat on wither side of it. The bed was parallel to the door and the nearest table had a lamp on it. The twenty five watt bulb still burned in it, suggesting that it had been turned on by either the boyfriend or someone else. The someone else category consisted of two people in Starling's mind: Julie Simms or her killer. She would put money on the killer.

All of the other bedrooms so far had had overhead lights, two of them were on ceiling fans. They had also been on when law enforcement had arrived on scene. All three women were unwed, and two had boyfriends that they were serious with. All were five feet three inches tall and weighed in at under one hundred twenty-five pounds. Three of the four had blonde hair, the first victim had red, but her driver's license picture and the color noted on it indicated that it was originally blonde. Okay, that meant the guy had to know or have met these women at one time or another. Probably had seen their driver's licenses as well. That narrowed the number of possible places of employment to the hundreds. Nothing there.

All of the houses had been neat. Well kept by either the women themselves or a weekly housekeeper. Nothing was unusual in the houses, no kinky sex toys or anything like that. No porno tapes stashed in the video cabinets or magazines beneath the beds. Normal American girls who worked hard for their money and enjoyed it. None of them had belonged to a gym, but number two had been in a tennis club three months before her murder. Nothing so far tying them together except for hair color, height, and weight. This was going to be a hard one, and Clarice resigned herself to the thought. She riffled through the closet, seeing clothing from the Gap, but nothing outrageously expensive. Well, there was a pair of Prada sandals on the floor and a tiny Gucci handbag. Her splurge items, rewards for herself.

She brushed her skirt as she rose from the closet, once again looking around the room. She sighed, trying to run events through her head. Part of her wished that Dr. Lecter would suddenly appear to help and harass her. It was definitely going to be a long day.

*****


	4. Introductions

Scribbles on a notepad as rain patters softly on the windowpanes. A glass of wine sits at her elbow as Clarice puzzles over the murders. Mr. Crawford instructed her to find anything, _anything_, to link the women together. Everything so far was way too vague to be of much help. Who knows how many women in the area had blonde hair, weighed five foot three and weighed less than one hundred twenty five pounds. whoever he was, he couldn't kill them all. She sighed and pulled her legs up into the chair, resting the pad on them while the pen was tapped against her teeth. She had sharpened her teeth on the Buffalo Bill case, and it seemed that everyone thought she was a miracle worker now. Yeah right. She wished she had the answers, but she didn't. Closing her eyes she began to drift in her memories. As always, he was there, waiting.

She stands in front of a steel cage, looking in on an imperially thin man sitting inside. He is leaning forward against a chairback, looking at her. He is staring into her with the utmost intensity. She struggles to keep her composure as he does so.

"First principles, Clarice." his voice rasps from behind the bars. She blinks, trying to figure out what to tell him. "What does he do?"

"He kills." the face twists and she knows, once again, that it is not the correct answer.

"No, Clarice. That is incidental. What does he _do_, this man you seek?"

She thinks, visualizing the crime scenes. The precise order everything was left in, nothing out of place. As if the murders committed themselves. "He's neat."

"Go on." He rocks the chair forward, balancing the weight on the front legs and his toes.

"He makes sure that the scene is precisely the way he found it."

"Ummmm. Warmer. What does he seek by making sure everything is in its place?"

She knows this. Her eyes shoot open and she tells the answer to the empty room. "Order. He wants order." She felt slightly silly for having debated this with a non-existent psychiatrist in her head, but it got her the first answer in the case. The guy's trying to control something. What, though, is the next question.

*****

The sun is setting over Florence as she walks with the man through the streets. She had just been treated to what had to be the most wonderful sight in the world. The breeze had played in her hair as she leaned over a balcony at the Belvedere and looked out across Florence. The Duomo was more magnificent than anything she had ever seen, along with the crenelated Palazzo Vecchio. She had been unable to control the need to sketch it, to keep it forever and ever in her mind's eye. She had also taken the 35 mm Nikon from her shoulder bag and snapped pictures, so she could work the details into the sketch later. Her glee was evident as she turned to face the man, who was watching her from the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorjamb, hands clasped behind his back.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he asked, coming to join her, watching as pigeons took to the sky, floating against the sunset.

"Wow. I mean, yes sir, it is." 

"You don't have to keep calling me sir." he gentle reprimanded her, studying her high cheekbones in the fading light.

She blushed. "Well, I don't know what else to call you, seeing as I have yet to learn your name."

"My colleagues know me as Dr. Fell." he smiled, showing small white teeth that contrasted with the red lips. 

She straightened to her full height, with perfect posture that had been drilled into her by her grandmother. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Fell. My name is Petra Morricone."

"Petra. An unusual name."

It was her turn to smile. "My mother's private joke. She thought her name was too plain, so her daughter had to have something that would stand out."

"And your mother's name is…?"

"Jane."

*****


	5. Varitaion Number Twenty-Five

Hello once again, dear ones. I think I am enjoying theses author's notes a little too much once again. First, for LadyOfTruths, this is not going to be a Petra/Lecter story. No romance involved between them, just a casual teacher/students friendship. Petra's mother's name has popped up in the previous tales, do we remember who she is dear ones? It will be important. Although, I do regret I won't be able to kill her like Francis Dolarhyde did Freddy Lounds. Pity. Anyhoo, we will continue…

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Come, dear one, lay your head against the door and listen. The tune is sad and heavy, seeming to speak of loss and mourning. It is played with a deep emotion, as if it really were the weight of mourning on the hands that touch the keys. Step into the room, quiet, for we wish to observe and not disturb. We watch the young woman bent over the keys, dark raven hair caught in the candlelight, showing hints of red. She plays without any music on the lyre shaped music rest. Her eyes are closed, her soul is free. A figure watches silently from the corner of the room, half in the shadows. His hand moves gently in the air, in time to the music. The notes she plays are familiar to him but he has never played them with so much of himself being poured into them. The final note hangs in the air for eternity as she lets her hands rest on the keyboard. Dr. Fell steps from the shadows, smiling at Petra. For now, we will take our leave. Come, dear one, before the good doctor sees us, for he finds unannounced visitors to be quite _rude_.

*****

Petra opens her eyes to the candlelight, still feeling the notes hanging in the air around her. The man she was playing for steps forward into the light, smiling at her. He lifts his hands to applaud quietly and she notes the fresh scar on his left hand. She files it away, and bows her head, graciously accepting his ovation. He stops next to the grand piano, his reflection in the polished black.

"The _Goldberg Variations_, am I correct?"

A pleased smile from Petra as she nods again. "Yes. Variation number twenty-five. My favorite outside the aria." She looks from him to the grandfather clock that stands in the corner. A shake of her head and she rises from the padded bench, looking about the room for her jacket and bag. "Way past my bedtime."

"Forgive me for keeping you out so late, Miss Morricone." he replies, holding a leather jacket out to her as she scoops the black bag from the floor. She smiles as he helps her into the jacket.

"Not at all, Dr. Fell. I had quite an extraordinary evening. Besides, the hotel doesn't care what time I turn in." she pauses while buttoning the jacket, looking up at him. "I'm not trying to seem rude or anything, but…" a deep breath as she quickly completes the sentence. "Is there any possible way I can see you again?"

Dr. Fell smiles, maroon eyes softening for a moment. "Of course. Tomorrow at the Uffizi museum? Say, after lunch?" 

A quick grin as she heaves the bag's shoulder strap up. "That would be wonderful." she turns and heads for the door, with the doctor following a few steps behind. Always the gentleman, he sees her to the front door. She waves as she steps out into the Florence night. "Goodnight, Dr. Fell." she calls over his shoulder, seeing his right hand raised and waving as she trots down the street.

"Goodnight, Miss Morricone."

*****

The lamp sits on the floor next to the couch. The lamp's base is exactly eight inches from the foot of the couch. No more, no less. The desk is at a right angel to the couch and lamp, with its back being five inches from the wall. It is clean and neat, not a speck of dust mars the shining wood or the leather blotter. In fact, upon closer inspection, no dust mars any surface in the living room. Curled on the couch is a Sphinx cat, ears laid back and eyes closed, purring in its sleep. A tall man steps from the kitchen, hands large around the coffee mug he holds. He sits next to the cat, five inches from her tail to be precise. The coffee mug is relinquished to the table ten inches from his knees, placed on a coaster that rests three inches from the edge of the coffee table. He sits upright in his chair, looking across the room. Framed, above the desk, was a large print of a now destroyed watercolor painting. Take a closer look at it dear one, he won't mind. Do you recognize it?

He comes to stand beside us, fingers reaching up to trace the faces in the print. Ah, yes, you _do_ recognize it, don't you? William Blake's _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun_. The original was eaten by the Tooth Fairy, Francis Dolarhyde himself. The tall man looks at the poster, past his reflection in the glass, studying it. We can see the strange yellow eyes reflected back to him. He has tried to see what Francis Dolarhyde saw in it, tried to become possessed by it like Francis had, but he cannot. He knows that if he could, it would bring him the order he needs in the chaos. He thinks back to the women. How neat they all were.

Yes, the women. His first step in Becoming. He will Become in order to get the order he knows he deserves. Order. Securing order from the deaths of those women, taking it from them and keeping it for himself. Anger is beginning to build in him, knowing that he is not yet close to the order he so dearly needs. Another one. Another sacrifice to the order that would come from the Red Dragon. Soon. He seizes the notebook that lies on the desk, centered on the leather blotter. He scrolls his finger down the list. Number five, there she is. He returns the notebook to the blotter, placing it once again in the exact center. He Collects his keys as he passes to the front door. The Sphinx eyes him form her corner of the couch.

"Don't wait up for me, darling." he calls as the door is tugged shut behind him. The Sphinx stretches lazily and closes her eyes. No doubt, she won't.

*****


	6. Witness to the Becoming

Clarice flips through the papers contained in the file. Looking for that one thing that will snap it into focus. Order. The guy wants order. He's going after neat people, people who have to be like him. But why? He's trying to secure order for himself. Okay, that's the first principle then. She scribbles notes on the notepad, unreadable chicken scratch. Could he be working with a housekeeping service? Carpet cleaners? The Coit van is called to mind for that. Okay, check those places out first thing in the morning, see if anyone of the victims had their carpets cleaned recently. Only two had weekly housekeeping service, victims number one and four. Maybe the others had them come in on a trial basis, some companies did offer a free cleaning the first time you used them. Starling scribbles furiously, intent on drawing out the riddle. The rain is pelting harder against the windows now, obscuring the darkness from view.

*****

Lightning briefly illuminates the kitchen, showing him stark against the white fridge. He is drawing a knife from its self-sharpening sheath, noting that he'll have to buy one for himself later on. It's a nice feature, saving him from having to dig through the drawers looking for the sharpening stone. No papers laying about for him to test the knife's blade on this time. He leaves the kitchen, footsteps masked by the steady beat of the rain. He edges to the first floor bedroom, counting the steps as he goes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. There, he lays his hand on the door knob, twisting it slowly. This door sighs on its hinges and he freezes, afraid that the noise will wake her and disrupt the order of things. Nothing, only the sound of heavy breathing from the bed. His hands tracks on the right side of the door, on the bedroom wall, seeking the light switch. It was so much easier with the lamp next to the bed, much less time for his victim to become aware of his presence. 

The woman doesn't move as the light comes on, bright in the darkness. He closes the distance to the bed, left hand reaching to pull the covers back to reveal the sleeping form. A flash of lightning outside as the sleeping woman is revealed. No. Her hair is glossy black, skin is the color of pale porcelain. No. This is not the order of things. This cannot be if he is to Become. She shivers at the lack of sheets and awakens, groping for the sheets. He does not move, unsure of how to deal with her. He cannot think, nothing is in its place. She looks at him, green eyes growing wide in terror as they flit from his face to the knife. 

"Oh god." she manages, a whimper rising in her throat. She watches him draw his knife back, raising her arm to ward it off. It issues a quiet thump as it cuts into the mattress next to her. He is quick, grabbing the upraised arm and pulling her from the bed.

"Where is she?" he asks, lips curled back as he leans close to her face, she kicks at him and struggles. "Stop that." he wrenches her wrists back, causing her knees to buckle as he holds her. "Where is she?"

A whimper, half out of pain and half out of terror issues from her lips. "Who?" she manages, felling the grip tighten. "Sandy moved out three days ago."

The soft voice rumbles dangerously. "No. She cannot. It is not the order of things."

She shakes her head, "Look. She did, I don't control things. She moved out. Please just let me go, I don't wanna get hurt or anything. Just leave, please. I won't call the police or anything." she pleads, tears beginning to track down her face. She hears a low growl and feels herself being thrown against the dresser. The oil lamp wobbles dangerously then crashes to against her head. He takes the knife from the bed and wraps her hand around it, placing it in her lap. She is semi-conscious, having suffered only a concussion. Her eyes try to focus on him, and she will vividly remember his yellow eyes. He speaks in a voice that is a near whisper.

"You will be a witness." he informs her. "You will herald my Becoming and the coming of the Order."

Her lips work to form a single word, pleasing him as she asks the question he wants. "Who?"

"The Red Dragon."

*****

Jane Morricone shivers as she sits in the living room of her Baltimore home, watching the local police and FBI agents work. She called 911 as soon as she was sure she was alone in the house again. Now, she waits. By noon tomorrow this will be in the _Tattler_, with her name on the byline. Finally, something other than those damn cancer stories. She hears her name and looks up to see a young FBI agent coming towards her. She recognizes the face as belonging to Clarice Starling. She is proved correct as the woman introduces herself, soft accent rolling in her voice.

"Mrs. Morricone, can I ask you a few questions?"

She smiles, brain clicking into gear so she can compose her own notes later. This would be one hell of a story. The latest serial killer to draw the attention of the FBI, with the most prolific agent on the case. She smiled as best she could as she replied. "Sure, Agent Starling, ask away."

*****

Starling stood before Crawford's desk, eyes red and bleary from the lack of sleep last night. She had arrived at Jane Morricone's house around two am, after having only managed a few hours of sleep. Crawford fixed himself an Alka-Seltzer as he listened to her. He stopped her at one point, looking up from the carbonated liquid in the glass, his own eyes red over the rims of his glasses.

"Did you say Red Dragon, Starling?"

"Yes sir. I think we may have a copy cat of sorts on our hands."

He drank the Alka-Seltzer and shook his head. "He told her that he was the Red Dragon? I don't need this again."

She nodded, drawing a breath to steady herself before she asked the next question. "Sir, do you think there is anyway we could get Will Graham's help on this case? I mean, if it is a copy cat of the original Red Dragon's crimes, Mr. Graham would know, right?"

A dry laugh came as her answer. "Starling, Will won't ever come back to help the FBI. No way. I'm not going to get my ass chewed out for calling him up here."

Okay. On to tactic number two, it was a slim shot, but… "Maybe if I called him, sir? Just asked if he would look over the file, give us his opinion?"

Crawford eyed her, he knew she was stubborn. He could see the same look Will had always gotten when he wanted something and was being refused it. "Okay, Starling, call him. But don't say I didn't warn you." she smiled briefly and nodded.

"Yes sir. Thank you, Mr. Crawford." she turned and walked form his office. He shook his head at her retreating image. First Graham and now Starling. How did he keep choosing them?

*****


	7. The Tyger and The Lamb

Tyger, tyger burning bright, in the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?

-William Blake "The Tyger" from _Songs of Experience_

*****

Special Agent Clarice Starling sits, alone, in her basement office in Behavioral Services. The phone number is skritched on a Post-It note that is attached to her computer monitor. She has been debating for over an hour now on how to approach Will Graham for his help. True, the man was a legend in the Academy, but he was now reputed to be a drunk living down in the keys. His wife had left him after the incident involving Francis Dolarhyde, the original Red Dragon. She taps a pencil against her teeth, thinking and staring at the phone number. Rocking forward in her chair, she grabs it, pulling it from the monitor. With her left hand she pulls the phone near her, dials for an outside line, and determinedly punches in the number. She waits through three rings, and at the start of the fourth she begins to reconsider her decision. She hears the phone click as it is picked up, answered by a male voice. 

"Hello?"

"Hello. This is Clarice Starling from the FBI, I was wondering if I could speak with Will Graham?" she hopes she has enough sweetness in her voice to downplay the anxiousness that is underlying it. A grunt on the other end as the man considers.

"This is Graham. I remember you, Starling. Your Jack's new little rising star, aren't you?" his voice sounds slightly dulled, and she isn't sure whether it's from the connection or the reputed alcohol abuse. He sounds sober enough…

"Yes sir, that's me. I was…" she is cut off before she can broach her subject.

"Don't let him drag you through everything he dragged me through. Although, you've already met Lecter, and he didn't end your career." there is anger and a touch of fear in the tone. "What do you want, Agent Starling?"

Okay, now or never. "Mr. Graham, we've had a series of serial murders here,"

"Yeah, seen them on the news."

"Okay. He just struck again last night, but he didn't kill the woman. But he did tell her something, and I was hoping that you'd be able to…"

He cuts her off again. "Be able to come and catch the killer. Starling, you're a smart girl, you don't need me to come and solve your cases for you. You were the one who caught Buffalo Bill, if I remember correctly."

"Yes sir. I don't want you to solve the case for me, Mr. Graham. I want your help. The killer told last night's victim that he was the Red Dragon." the line buzzes loud in her ear as she hears an obscenity come from Will Graham's mouth.

"Did Crawford put you up to this, Agent Starling?"

"No sir, in fact, he told me there was no way you'd come back to help the FBI if he asked. So I told him I would ask." she pauses a moment, waiting to see if he is going to yell at her or hang up. He does neither, only remains silent. "Sir, you were the one that caught the original Red Dragon. If this guys a copy cat of sorts, I think that your assistance on the case would be extremely useful."

Graham sighs on his end of the line, and she cannot see him tipping the beer bottle back and forth on the table as he weighs the request. A new Red Dragon. Did he really want to go back into all of that? The last case almost got him killed. He sighs, making her wait. 

"All you want is help?"

"All I want is help, Mr. Graham. I want you to look over the case file, and tell me what you think. I can send it down there if you want me to, you wouldn't even have to come up here."

He smiles, she's almost as good as him. Crawford does seem to pick the bright ones to groom for his section. Hell, Crawford picked him. He hears a pen tap against the desk as she waits for his reply. "Okay, Starling. I'll come up and take a look. Share my opinions with you."

She beams and punches her right hand into the air. She got him. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome, Starling. Two days."

"Two days." she agrees, nodding. He says his farewells and hangs up his end of the line. Clarice cradles the handset and smiles at the green text on the computer screen. Clarice Starling, miracle worker.

*****

In those two days before Will Graham's arrival all hell breaks loose. Jane Morricone has run her story in the _National Tattler_. Earning herself the headline in seventy-two point Railroad Gothic. Copies of the tabloid fly from area shelves as people waiting in grocery lines snatch it up. Some are old enough to remember the original Red Dragon murders, some are not. Far from the city where all of this is taking place, one man who does remember presses the paper flat on his table as he sips his morning coffee. He finds it rather amusing.

Dr. Fell smiles over the rim of his cup, reading the story under the byline of Jane Morricone. Petra's mother. He'll have to ask her later on how she likes having a mother who writes for the greatest of American tabloids. There is a quick mention of him in the story, accompanied by the picture Freddy Lounds took when Will Graham visited him in the hospital. He wonders how Will is doing. He really should drop him a line soon, maybe send him a colostomy bag for old times sake. Wouldn't want Will to forget him, now would we?

Reading further, he finds a pleasant surprise. Mrs. Morricone has informed the public that Special Agent Starling of Buffalo Bill fame is the FBI agent working the case. Oh that was interesting. His lips curve into a wide smile as the tip of his red tongue snakes out to touch precisely in the middle of his red upper lip. Clarice. His little Starling. She has sent no word to him that the lambs have stopped screaming. Not that he ever though she would. Maybe he should write her again too, since he had promised not to call on her. The world is much more interesting with her in it, as Mrs. Morricone is proving. A knock at the door draws his attention form the paper. He rises gracefully to answer it, finding Petra standing outside.

"Good morning, Miss Morricone. Have you seen this morning's paper?"

*****


	8. Through a Glass Darkly

That when darkness folds on darkness, in the restless tides of night, and the lightning raises shadows and for moments gives them life.

-From the booklet accompanying the Trans-Siberian Orchestra album _Beethoven's Last Night_

*****

Will Graham stands in the polished front hallway of Julie Simms' Baltimore home. Everything, from floor to ceiling was white, of a variation on that theme. No color here. His hard soled shoes sound on the linoleum, and he can see tracks from the shoes of the officers and agent who stepped foot here before him. He breathes in the air, stale now, since the windows have not been opened in a week. He was sure that Ms. Simms would not be pleased with her house being shuttered up this way. He walked through the hall, finding himself in a formal dining room between the living room and the kitchen. A heavy oak table with six chairs sat in the room, walls close in on it. An heirloom, one which she made do with in the limited space because she refused to part with it. A china cabinet and buffet is pushed against the wall next to the hall entrance. He blinks slowly, taking it in. Footsteps come across the linoleum behind him.

She stops short behind him, noting the lack of movement as one hand rests against the wall. He looks back at her, and she can't read anything from his eyes or his face. The horrific scars do not bother her, she has become used to them in the two days they have spent going through the victims' homes. Julie's home was the last of the five for them to revisit. Starling followed him into the kitchen, sneakers whispering on the floor. Here the linoleum was in black and white checkerboard, and matched the black and white tiles of the countertop. Still sitting there by the stove was the _Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine_, and it summoned Lecter's pale visage once again. Graham had looked at it too, and was shaking his head, moving out of the kitchen.

"Last time I saw that was in Lecter's cell." she heard him mumble under his breath. She watched him leave, and raised her hand to the counter height. Her fingers spread wide and she laid them atop the cover, as if she could draw something more than a memory out of it. She dropped her hand back to her side and followed Graham up the stairs. She mentally counted the steps it took her to reach the door to the master bedroom, where he already stood inside. The same yellow curtains now lay limp over the window, and the setting sun's ruddy color seeped through them. Clarice walked past the mirror that was above the dresser, noting the tired face of Will Graham that was reflected back in it. She could suddenly see all the years that weighed on him, all the pain. Worse yet, she could see all the pain and years that weighed on her too. Her mind pulled a poem she had heard before out of the dark recesses and she heard her own voice recite it.

__

I see this woman here

with such a sadness in her eyes

that runs so deep in her soul

I want to reach out to her

and comfort her

but she is merely a reflection

a play of light in the looking glass

She snapped her head around the room, tearing her gaze from the mirror. Her voice had been so clear that she could have sworn that she had spoken aloud. Graham gave no indication of that as he looked at the blood stains on the bed and the floor. Dark rusty red on pale white carpet. This woman had been so pure, so clean. She had order in everything, let it control her life. She let it control her life so she could pretend that she knew where it was headed. Dying at the hands of serial killer had not been in those carefully laid plans. She was standing very still, and she thought she could almost feel the vibrations form Graham's voice as it cut across the room.

"Starling, did you guys check to see if these guys had any relatives related to Dolarhyde's victims?" Even in that scarred and twisted face, Will's eyes still burned with a fierce intensity. She shook her head.

"No one related to either the Leedses or the Jacobis, that was the first thing we ran when Mrs. Morricone told us what the guy said to her." the reporters name dripped with slight contempt from Starling's lips. She didn't approve of the trash tabloids or their hold on the media. "We also ran to see if there were any descendants from him. Nothing. The half-siblings from his mother's marriage to Howard Vogt, all of them came up with dead ends. The girls both live in Los Angeles now and the son committed suicide three years ago."

"I think he's related somehow. Mrs. Morricone said he had yellow eyes?"

"Yessir."

"Yellow eyes stand out almost as much as maroon ones, Starling." 

*****

The Sphinx sauntered into the kitchen, her tiny nose twitching at the smell of broiled fish. The tall man stood over the stove, stirring a pot of black eyed peas before he replaced the lid to let them simmer. HE smiled at the cat, revealing the twisted teeth that he had never bothered to get fixed. His mother had put him up for adoption as soon as he was born, uncaring who he would go to. He now mused that he had reminded her too much of Francis Dolarhyde. He had been raised by a caring family and they had gotten the best plastic surgery for him, but had never cared about his teeth. He just wouldn't speak when he was in public, and that was their solution. Outward appearances were everything for the Conrads. He had been labeled "stupid" and "dork" by other children in grade school. They learned the hard way not to call him that, after he had bashed Michael Stephenson's head into the brick wall of the school. The new term for him after that was "monster".

The other children would have never understood him, and they still didn't. He knew of a greater thing in life; the clear precise order to it all. He would bring that order to him, rule over it, making the world his own. He was not going to be controlled by a voice in his head like his predecessor had. He would Become, and he would Become by using the pure lives of those who craved order like him. Neat, clean, order. The sacrifices built on one another like stones in an old castle wall. Absorbing them as he grew in his power. His lips spread into a grin as he thought of his growing power. Yellow eyes glowed as he came to stand before the framed print over his desk. Soon. So very soon.

"I will be the Great Red Dragon."

*****


	9. With Trust Comes Trouble

In the dimmed candlelight a hand reaches from the shadows beyond, lifting a fountain pen from the desk and dipping it into the inkwell. The ink is a rich royal blue, fitting of the letter he prepares to write. The nib of the pen scratches softly against the fine linen paper, words forming in a distinctive copperplate script. The words whisper in his mind, in tune to the notes of the piano that wash softly into the library.

__

Dear Clarice,

I have seen that, once again, you have gained a place in the spotlight. Does this please you? Does it make you proud to be the subject of the media hounds? I myself do try to avoid the media when I can, although I suppose it may have something to do with the fact that I am a known felon, and being in the spotlight is not worthy to my cause. Although, the infamous Tattler_ has proved helpful in the prior case that Will Graham worked._

How is Will, by the way? He never acknowledges the correspondence I attempt with him. Pity. I think he's still rather upset with me for the parting 'gift' my Avid Fan gave him. No, Clarice, I am not helping this current Red Dragon. The thought is far from my mind, although I am confident that it has crossed both yours and Will's. 

Has Will told you of his discussions with me in the dungeon? No? I rather thought not. He refuses to admit a simple thing about he and I, namely the reason he caught me. Maybe it will give you a clue as to how to catch me someday, Special Agent Starling. You see, Will and I are just alike. Ask him, he'll know.

I would like to extend an offer to you, Clarice. If you require any assistance in getting inside the 'monster's' mind, only place an ad in accordance to the outlines set for your answer to my previous question. I do not know who he is, but I am willing to help. All you have to do is ask. Perhaps this time you will be able to silence the lambs. I wish you well, Clarice.

Regards

Hannibal Lecter, MD

PS- Do say hello to Will for me if you don't share this letter with him. I still hold to my promise that I will not call on you Clarice. The world is still more interesting with you in it.

-H

He carefully folds the letter in thirds before fitting it inside the envelope, which is sealed with red sealing wax. The wax looks like blood as it drips onto the paper, and almost matches the depth of color in his eyes. The envelope is addressed in his hand to Starling's home, and he allows the wax to cool before he slips it into a larger manila envelope, this one addressed to a remailing service in Denver, Colorado. He seals the envelope, moistening the flap with his red tongue. He lays it on the desk and reaches to snuff one of the candles there. He sits in the darkness, letting his thoughts grow into eternity as the piano continues playing, the pure notes washing over him like the tide.

*****

Petra let her fingers flit over the keys, almost lost to the music, her head nodding as if in a trance. She enjoys the time spent here in the doctor's well appointed house, a wonderful escape from the walls of her hotel room. A pause in the music earns a pause of regret for Petra, as she has yet to tell Dr. Fell that she is returning to the States in less than a week. Perhaps she hasn't told him because she doesn't want to accept it herself. She has become quite comfortable here in Florence, and is now even more so in the company of the doctor. He has taken her under his wing and shown her around, introducing her to the finer things that are to be held in life. A small sigh slips from her lips at the memory of the night spent at the opera. If only things could stay this way.

"You've stopped playing in the middle of your piece, Miss Morricone." come the rasping voice from behind her. Petra twists on the bench and then looks back to her hands, fingers still spread, but now idle on the keys. She could easily feel the weight of his gaze as he came to stand directly behind her. He motioned fro her to move over on the bench, and takes a seat beside her. Flexing his fingers, he began to play. Idle notes that shine like crystals, not really connected as he speaks to her.

"You look upset, Miss Morricone. May I ask what is the matter?"

:I have to go back home on Thursday. I don't really want to leave yet." she is surprised at the tears that are welling in her eyes. Leaving anywhere had never caused such a reaction in her. She supposed that is had something to do with the fact that she had never connected with anyone on her journeys before. She wiped angrily at her offending eyes and tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. The note had stopped and she felt something soft brush against her hand. She looked down to see Dr. Fell offering her a handkerchief. She nodded her thanks and wiped at her eyes. "Sorry." the apology was issued on a trembling voice. The doctor smiled kindly at her.

"Never apologize for yourself, Petra." she looked at him, stunned to hear her name on his lips. The friendship they had formed had an air of formality, keeping the distance between them. Now there was a break in the formalities, and she stared at the use of her given name, the casual sound of it on his tongue. "I am sad to hear that you will be leaving. Where in the States are you headed back to?"

A sigh escapes her, heavy as if facing something she dreaded, like the chores she had in her youth. "Baltimore." the name is slightly bitter on her tongue. She'd much rather be going to Boston where her father lived, but her mother was insisting on her return to Baltimore.

"Fate has made this a small world. I will be going there myself, shortly. Perhaps we will see each other there." that coaxed a smile out of her, and he decided to continue. The right hand slips into his pocket and withdraws a fine needle. He hates to do this, but he must ensure that she won't run when he tells her. She will be the only one that he trusts to carry his secrets.

"Petra, I believe we have reached a level of trust in our friendship, and I need to tell you something very, very important." she nods, the tears have now passed from her eyes, and she straightens, assuming an attentive posture. He hesitates slightly as he takes her hand carefully in his own. Surprise grows in her eyes as he tightens the grip and holds her arm straight. The hypodermic is inserted and withdrawn before she can pull away from him. The drug seizes her and Dr. Fell carefully catches her as she slumps against him. The eyes are growing farther and farther away as she tries to speak.

"Why?"

*****


	10. Homecoming

First, I must bow to Kurt and shower him with praise. You, dear sir, are one of _the_ best writers I have yet to see. Marvelous, marvelous work. I could only hope to do as well. I do so hope you are enjoying this tale, dear ones. I don't know when it will end, so I hope you will be patient with me, and hopefully resist any urges to eat me or hang me or the such. Nothing more, I will stop prattling and get on with the story. Ta.

**************************************************************************************

Neat block printing fills the lined pages of the small journal that is kept inside the locked drawer. Here, in the eight inch by five inch black notebook, are kept the thoughts and passages from Darryl Conrad's transformation, his Becoming. Peer over his shoulder as he writes, he does not mind as long as we do not disturb his perfect order. His life is built on order, the only thing that keeps him sane. Routine, day in and day out, never altering it, not for a moment. He senses that he will rise to the order soon, and this inspires him. The micro tipped Uni-Ball Deluxe pen skips down a line before he dates the page, and enters the next line. His vision of the Order that will consume him, that will Become him.

__

Ecce deua foritor me, qui veniens dominabitur michi.

Another line is skipped and he begins to scribe the Latin into English. Kind of him, isn't it?

__

Here is a God stronger than I who comes to rule over me.

He smiles as he recaps the pen, reaching to lovingly stroke the Sphinx that sits next to him. Her skin is smooth and a pale shade between peach and pink. In winter she wears a fleece sweater to keep her warm, since she does not possess a worthy coat of fur herself. She purrs, the tremor rumbling against his fingertips. He rereads the line he has written over and over again, imbedding it into his consciousness. It is the definition of order for him. And although the order he seeks currently rules him, the time is nigh when he will rule the order. He closes the book and returns it to the drawer, locking it safely away. The last flare from the sunset illuminates the old house, and his face, giving added brilliance to his yellow eyes.

*****

She stands alone just outside customs, thick raven hair plaited straight down her back, black shoulder bag clutched to her side and the large heavy Samsonite rolling case beside her. From this distance, she looks to be a child of twelve, with fear in her eyes from having to navigate Dulles airport on her own. Many people have made this mistake already, and have paused by her offering a "Are you lost honey? Do you need help finding your mommy?" All are brushed aside with a look, and she declines their questions and offers politely. All move off rapidly, embarrassed at their mistake. Petra Morricone does not like to be treated as a child, especially since she is not one. 

Her mother is late. Not slightly late, very late, as Petra has been standing here for just under an hour. She is not surprised by this, the last time her mother was on time for something was for the divorce proceedings when Petra was fifteen. Her father joked that Jane Morricone was late for her own wedding, and would probably be late for her own funeral. But when she did arrive, it was always with a flair for the dramatic. Meeting her daughter at the airport was to be no exception. 

The automatic sliding doors open and Jane Morricone breezes in, escorted by a herd of media hounds. Petra struggles to quell the urge to run and hide in the bathrooms or fight her way back onto the Boeing 747 that carried her here. The woman approaching is a spitting image of Petra, albeit almost a head taller. Mother and daughter share the same raven hair, pale complexion, and stunning emerald green eyes. Petra glares at the ceiling as the flashbulbs go off around them, her mother embracing her and whispering in her ear.

"Just ignore them. They've been following me everywhere." Jane smiles as she releases her daughter and walks back to the sliding doors. The Samsonite is tugged along behind Petra as she trudges through the doors. Her mother is moving quickly through the parking garage as Petra feels someone bump into her. She raises her head to glare at the person and stops, midmotion. A red smile from underneath a black fedora greets her, and she feels the breath die in her throat. 

"Pardon me." and he is gone. She looks back over her shoulder to follow him, but he seems to have been nothing more than an illusion. As she reaches her mother's Sable she wishes fervently that one of them had stayed in Florence, and she would prefer that it had been her.

*****

Clarice scrubs at the already clean counter, hands sheathed in yellow dishwashing gloves. She was trying to work off the irritation she felt at the case. They were getting no where, and it wasn't any consolation that the murders had momentarily ceased. Nothing since he had broken into Jane Morricone's home. An idle thought trickled through her brain like the sweat that was trailing down her forehead, disgusting her. Sure, Morricone was a pain, but she really didn't want her dead, did she? She prayed that it wouldn't turn out like the original Dragon case, during which Dolarhyde had murdered Freddy Lounds.

She heard the screech of brakes outside the duplex and identified the grumbling idle of the mail truck. She stripped off the gloves and brushed the strand that had worked their way loose from the ponytail out of her face. She dropped her foot from the chair she had been kneeling one, having cleaned the cabinets before she began on the counter. It came down on a fork, the worn tines pressing hard into the ball of her foot. She muttered a sharp curse as she grabbed it, sitting back down on the chair. No blood, but it hurt like the dickens. She hobbled her way out to the front door throwing it open and being greeted by the warm afternoon sun.

The limp is evident as she walks back up the driveway with the mail. She glances at the Escort as she flips past a notice from the dealership saying she needed an oil change. _And that's not all it needs_, her mind grumbled. Bills, bills, a pizza coupon, a subscription renewal for Ardelia. The last envelope caused her to freeze, weight coming down on the injured foot, but she ignores the pain that shot up her leg. Her first instinct was to look around, as if the sender would be dumb enough to be standing there, in the open, waiting for her to see him. Clarice compelled her legs to move as she opened the screen door and let it slam behind her, eyes never leaving the letter. She returns to the kitchen, dropping the rest of the mail onto the counter and carrying the letter over to the chair she had been using in her cleaning spree.

A knife is pulled from the drawer and the blade inserted under the flap, breaking the wax seal. The chills start even before the fine linen paper tucked inside is removed. _Oh god._ Her eyes track to her name in the greeting, then to the signature at the bottom. The lab should have this immediately, but Clarice knows that she cannot do that. She settles back slightly in the chair, laying the knife on the counter, and begins to read.

*****

A lone man in khaki slacks and a polo shirt strolls down the cul-de-sac's sidewalk, politely nodding to the neighbors out enjoying the sunshine. His eyes are shaded by a pair of sunglasses and he moves at a steady pace. He glances briefly at the Escort in the driveway, noting the parking pass displayed on the dash, tucked in the driver's side of the windshield. His gaze travels up to the doorway, and he makes note of the address that is posted next to it. He continues on, not letting his observations alter his pace. He turns left and continues down the path that winds through the subdivision. Nothing more than a neighbor out for an afternoon stroll.

*****


	11. Dealing with the Internal Psychiatrist

Forgive the short chapter, if it can even be called a chapter… I have hit a writer's block. Big giant heavy one too, at that. Guess you'll have to settle for this for a little bit. Okey dokey, I'll go find something to awaken my muse, then, while you read. 

**************************************************************************************

Anger was not a strong enough word for what Clarice felt at that precise moment. She wasn't sure that anything could really describe it to her satisfaction. The letter lays unfolded on the counter as Clarice paces the kitchen. On one hand, she is privately thrilled to hear form him, but at the same time there is a stone in her stomach at the sight of the copperplate script. She cannot turn the letter over to the FBI, to do so would mean more trouble for her than for him. She never turned over the previous letter, and to do so now would complicate things and probably cause her to lose her hard won place in Behavioral Sciences. God damn Lecter and his games. Did he honestly think she had nothing better to do than play games? She wasn't a child anymore, she was an adult, more so than that, she was an FBI agent.

The letter is picked up once again and she has to restrain herself from wadding it up and throwing it across the room. She wished she could do that, but rather to Dr. Lecter than to his notes. She was not going to crawl back to him and beg for his help. No way. Starling's don't do that. We can stand up to life on our own, thank you very much and good day. Unfortunately, he was already there inside her head and mocking her. Ridiculing her and her background. Telling her that she would never be anything more than her mother was. Working in the motels on Route 66, watching the black and white crow steal from the cart. His voice told her that she would never be anything more than a well-scrubbed rube with a little taste. Starling finally got angry enough to silence him.

"Shut up, Dr. Lecter!" she cried, unfortunately out loud, startling her visitor who stood in the doorway. The normal person would have been shocked by this, made to wonder if she was as crazy as the men she seeks to capture. Will Graham was not normal. A grim smile twisted in his distorted features as he caught her eye.

"He got in your head too, didn't he?"

*****


	12. Nocturnal Visitations

See? The writer's block didn't last long. I just needed the proper inspiration. Namely a chat with Karma, my Yo-Yo Ma CD on the stereo, and a half pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Gore will come soon, within the next few chapters, probably prompting a rating change. Do hope you enjoy. Tralala and off we go.

**************************************************************************************

The house is quiet as he slips through, the dark clothes blending into the night that penetrates through the windows. He has never been here before, but it was easy to navigate past the large shapes of the furniture. Footsteps are muffled by the tennis shoes our intruder wears. One hand on the banister for balance, he ascends the stairs, pausing and listening at the slightest squeak. No movement in the hall above him and he continues. The first door leads to the bathroom, and it whines softly on the hinges. Only two more doors. One on the left, one on the right. He takes the one on the right, the one next to the bathroom, since it would seem to be the master bedroom. Correct. The door swings open easily at his touch, not fully latched. He steps inside.

The auburn hair is spread like a halo on the white pillow, giving her an ethereal quality as she sleeps. Her breathing is soft and deep as he approaches, not stirring as his dark form nears the bed. One arm lays outside the comforter, curled and the hand grasping the upper edge. He looks to the clear complexion of her face. Spring has begun to bring out the freckles that dot her face and the bridge of her nose. A few strands of the auburn hair lay across her cheek, the ends moving in her soft breath. A hand reaches out and brushes them back, and she turns towards the direction the hand came from. Her eyes do not open, as much as he would like to look upon them. If he closes his own eyes for a moment, he can see them, blue as the ocean and just as intense. One last look at her as he opens his eyes. He turns softly on his heel and heads back down the stairs. The front door closes quietly behind him, the only thing lacking is the sound of the deadbolt sliding home.

The streets are wet with a mist as he walks down them. The orange glow from the streetlamps catches glass in the gutter and makes it glitter. No one notices him as he walks alone. Just a neighbor out for a late night stroll because he can't sleep. Nothing more frightening than that.

*****

The man known as Dr. Fell emerges from the shower with a large bath sheet wrapped around him and steam rising from his body. The dark head is visible in the clouded mirror and we must be careful not to intrude on his quiet reflection. It is early, you see, nearly three am, but the good doctor is still running on Florence time. That, and the dreams that have accompanied his rest has made it quite difficult to sleep. Stay back in the shadows of the far corner of the room where he cannot see you. One does not want to discover what he does to unannounced visitors. He slips from the towel into the terry cloth robe that hangs on the bathroom door, sliding his feet into the matching slippers. His face is till flushed from the heat as he eases back into the bedroom area, his scarred left hand reaching out to the lamp that sits on the table.

He sighs deeply as he sits, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands, elbows on the table. He has not realized the depth of emotion he has for her. Probably more so from refusal to acknowledge it than from not really knowing. She has plagued his nights since his arrival here in Baltimore. Once more in the city that he was incarcerated in. Fortunately, Dr. Frederick Chilton will not be around to torment him this time. A smile flickers across his lips, he had resolved that conflict a few years ago. His mind does not remain on Chilton for long, but returns to the thoughts of her. He has a refusal to name her right now, since he is slightly afraid that it will only worsen the longing for her. Promises were promises, and he was a man of his word. 

Dr. Fell slowly raises his head, and the light reflects in his maroon eyes. Even from the shadows we occupy, one can make out the sparks that fly to his center. The right hand now reaches out to the lamp, not turning it off, only manipulating the dimmer switch. He rises and trades the robe for a pair of royal blue pajamas. The color of the ink he used to write the letter to her. After that task is completed, the lamp is turned off and we can hear the bed shift as he settles into it. Come now, it would be wise to slip out as he drifts off to sleep. A name slips from the doctor's lips as sleep claims him, betraying his will.

"Clarice."

*****

Darryl Conrad sits in the living room of his home, his face upturned to the print that is illuminated by the desk lamp turned up to face it. The light is slightly eerie, as it reflects in his eyes and on his face. The silence of the house is broken by the sound of rustling on the back porch. he doesn't turn at the sound, accustomed to it. Within moments, he can hear them. The wild dogs with their faces upturned to the moon, eyes closed. Most of them crooned single vowel between O and U, but some just hummed along. Conrad hummed along too, since it was the order of things. The woman was placed in his mind, primed for the next sacrifice. She would do well, since she was the obstacle that wanted to cease his Becoming. Her pretty auburn hair flashed in the sunlight as he looked at her, watching her cross the parking lot. She had spoken to him so many times, oblivious to the reality. It would be wonderful to see the blue eyes light up with the knowledge that he, Darryl Conrad, the half-nephew of Francis Dolarhyde, was the Red Dragon.

*****


	13. Getting Closer

Hello! Again with the author's notes, although I do have a reason this time. Disclaimers for little things in previous chapters. First, the poem Clarice remembers is entitled _Reflection_, and is copyright to me. Second, the line in Latin that Conrad inscribed in his journal is from Dante Alighieri's _La Vita Nuova_. Just thought I should get those out of the way. Back to the tale.

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"He's not doing anything that would directly link him to the original Red Dragon." The file slapped on the desk as Will Graham threw it there. He stood, frustration flashing in his eyes, before Clarice in her little cubicle of an office. She watched him, trying to keep a grip on her patience. Graham rubbed at his eyes before he continued.

"Nothing to connect him with the original Red Dragon murders. He doesn't kill the family pet…"

"None of the women have had pets."

Graham continued as if he hadn't heard her. "He doesn't kill entire families. No sexual intercourse with the women, _before_ or _after_ he kills them. He just flips on the light, walks to their bed, and slices their throats." He gave a grunt and settled in the folding chair that occupied one corner of the cubicle. Clarice opened the file and tapped at the notes with her pencil.

"He's neat, Graham. He's trying to assume order. Look at the homes and lives of the women he's killed. Clean, quiet, orderly. No pets, because pets aren't neat. The women live alone, so in essence he _is_ killing the entire family." she paused, catching his eye, knowing that he was listening and acknowledging what she had to say. "Intercourse isn't necessary. For one, that task itself is messy. I'd say he's going after the _essence_ of the women. Trying to obtain the order he wants from them. Their sacrifices, and that and the name are all that's connecting him to Francis Dolarhyde, so far."

Graham nodded. A tired smile was on his lips as he spoke. "Damn, Starling. You're a smart one. Jack was right to pick you out and throw you in his pack." 

Clarice blushed slightly, and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

"Okay. Remember that Morricone said he had yellow eyes. Dolarhyde had yellow eyes, God knows, I saw 'em. Chances are, he's related to Dolarhyde somehow. Cousin, nephew, something along those lines. Probably on Dolarhyde's mother's side of the family. Maybe the son of one of the sisters. You checked them?"

"Yes. Margaret and Victoria. Both live in Los Angeles now. Margaret has three children, all girls. That rules them out, since we know our Dragon is male. Victoria, again, girls. But the hospital records show another birth two years before her first daughter. A boy, but when we inquired, she said he had died just a few days after he was born. I was wondering on that. What if he didn't die?"

"Good point. Abandoned in the hospital like Dolarhyde? Can you get the adoption records, maybe?"

She nods, glad that they're on the same track. "It might take a little doing, but probably."

"Do it. We may have hit the jackpot."

*****

Clarice hurries across the parking lot, head tucked against the rising wind. Another storm front is pushing its way into the area. That meant more rain was coming. She needed to grab a few items from the store, having found out that she didn't have all the necessary ingredients for dinner that evening. The automatic door swings open as the electronic eye sees her step into its range. She grabs the last handbasket and makes her way to the back of the store. She picks through the meat selection, looking for a relatively trim looking cut. Finding one that meets her standards, it is dropped into the basket with the other ingredients. She makes her way to the checkouts, frowning at the elevator music that was piped on the overhead speakers. 

The cashier smiled at her as Clarice placed the meat and other groceries on the counter. She smiled back, ignoring the twisted yellow teeth. A rictus grin that always reminded her of the Joker from the Batman comics. His nametag reads simply "D", and she has known him as such for the past three years. 

"Hey, Agent Starling. You have a good day today?" he always greeted her this way. She had fallen into the routine, always issuing the same reply.

"Yeah, D. Same day I had yesterday."

The teeth are shown again, as he swipes the meat across the laser scanner. "That's nice, Agent Starling." his fingers move deftly over the keypad, bringing her total up in green numbers on the digital readout. "Ten seventy seven, Agent Starling."

Clarice counted out the precise change and handed it to him, fingers brushing briefly against his palm. She didn't see the glow in his eyes from that brief contact. He dropped the change into the drawer and tore her receipt form the printer. Her hand touches his again as she takes it form him.

"Have a nice evening, Agent Starling." he calls, watching as she walked towards the door with her grocery bag. He receives a smile over her shoulder. His yellow eyes glow and he feels a pleasant tingle flow through him. 

*****

Clarice pushes through the door into the duplex, only to be greeted by the ringing of her phone. She growls low as she heads for the kitchen, dropping the bag onto the counter and grabbing for the phone. She hears the machine kick on just as soon as she reaches the phone. Her machine, as Delia's stays silent. Separate lines had been installed in the duplex last year. She listens as she holds a hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver.

"Hi. You've reached the home of Clarice Starling. I can't come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the beep." she hears the electronic beep and waits for the caller to leave a message. A few seconds of nothing but faint breathing, and she is tempted to remove her hand from the phone and yell at the caller. She starts to, and the phone falls from her hand as she hears the message being recorded. The voice she hears in her mind at night. The voice that represents fear and hope, now coming from her answering machine, that soft metallic rasp.

"Well, hello, Clarice."

The phone clatters against the floor, and she can hear the sound tinnily recorded on the machine's tape. A click on the other end as she falls to her knees, scrambling for the phone. Dial tone also echoes from the earpiece as she places it to her ear. She falls back to her bottom, leaning against the counter base. He was back.

*****


	14. Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

Thank you, all, for the kind reviews. I'm glad that you are enjoying this so much. As for buying the rest of this story, dear Steel, you can bribe me with some Ben & Jerry's ice cream (Peanut Butter Truffle, please) or just keep up the reviews! 

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The late afternoon sun has drawn a myriad of joggers from their homes, having banished the clouds and rain for at least a short time. The path she runs is conspicuously absent of other runners. It winds back through the woods, that afternoon sun being filtered through the last of summers green leaves. Autumn will be quick in her coming, soon bringing a crisp breeze to the air, and changing the leaves to a lovely rustic patina. For now, that could be a thousand years distant. A few puddles dot the gravel trail in the more shaded areas, and she is careful to avoid them. 

Running has always been an escape for her. A place where she could go, and not have to think about everything else. She was just herself, then. She felt the good ache working its way up her calves. Her breath and steps are measured, and her high ponytail swings behind her. She barely feels the strands as they brush against the damp of her neck. The belt pack around her waist contains a water bottle, which is held in its holder by an elastic strap. A drop of liquid beads at the top of the spout, sparkling like a diamond in the sun. Feet continue to crunch the gravel, as a single runner emerges from a convergent trail. She ignores him as he passes, keeping her mind focused on the task of running.

Unfortunately, as that other runner's image dwindles in the distance ahead of her, she does not remain focused. Within s second, Clarice's mind has found a much more interesting subject. She blinks, once, as the answering machine message plays through in her head, and her feet tangle below her. She thrusts her hands out before her, trying to cushion the imminent fall. Gravel bites into the soft flesh of her palms, and more into her knees. She grunts as she slides downward, face inches from the gravel. Clarice pushes herself up and rolls to a sitting position. Carefully, she brushes the gravel from her hands and knees, wincing at the scrape that reddens her left leg. The knees are also skinned bare, and she hisses at the pain as she stands.

The walk back to the Escort is long and painful. Now the right knee has begun to trickle blood, and a single rivulet worms its way down her shin. Her palms hurt, but they don't bleed. Only the first layer of skin was stripped away, making them rough and sensitive. She digs the keys from her belt pack, and clenches them in her teeth as she pours some water in her hands. It stings as it washes over the abrasions. The powder blue sub-compact sits in the shade beneath an oak tree in the parking lot. The trunk is opened first, and the first aid kit withdrawn from the pile of junk in the trunk. She rests against the split-rail fence, foot resting on the chrome bumper as she dabs at the bleeding spot on her knees and legs. She rinses the blood away, frowning as the water spills into her socks. 

As she returns the kit to the trunk, the hard mount phone in her car has begun to ring. She slams the trunk and fights to get the key into the door, never noticing that the door was already unlocked. It is finally flung open and the phone grabbed from its holder. She tugs to untangle the power cord as she answers it. 

"Hello?"

A bead of sweat trickles from her forehead to the bridge of her nose as she waits for an answer. "Clarice?" she sucks down air, not realizing that she had been holding her breath. "Its Graham."

"Hey, yeah. What's up?" she turns and sits in the drivers seat, twisting the keys in the ignition. 

"Justice called back. We've got adoption papers on the supposedly dead son. The kid was adopted by the Conrad family. The name that he's listed with is Darryl Conrad."

A smile lights up Starling's face. "Damn! That's great!" A burst of static crashes through the phone. "Graham? Graham, are you there?"

Will Graham's voice comes back, broken and static filled. "…Bad connection. Starlin… Jack will call you… Get it all…. Tomorrow…" she can't piece anything together and Graham is gone before she can ask for him to repeat it. Sighing, the phone is returned to the holder. She pulls the door closed and starts the Escort, listening to the familiar whine as its engine turns over. Oh well, best to get home and wait for Crawford to call her. They were so close.

*****

Graham had the same thought as he drove back to his hotel room. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and he was playing with neither. He hoped Starling had gotten the gist of what was happening, the phone had passed into a dead zone as he drove. Tomorrow, everything was going to come to a head. They had to move fast, before any more women were murdered. Even though it was only four in the evening, Graham was exhausted as he parked the rental in the lot. He could sleep for days, if his mind and body would let him. Well, a good shower and eight hours of sleep would have to do. 

Will unlocked the door and returned the key to his pocket. Even after all these years, Will Graham could still tell in an instant when something was wrong. He can't tell you whether it is a smell in the air, a feeling, or just some other sixth sense that tells him this, he can just tell you he knows. Four steps into the room, past the bathroom and within reach of the light switch. The curtains are closed but there is still enough light for adjusted eyes to see in the dark room. Graham has the disadvantage, and chills run through his spine as he hears the voice from across the room.

"Leave the lights off, Will." 

Graham's head snapped towards the sound. Squinting, he could make out the figure. Slim, upright in the chair, legs crossed at the knee. Fear floods Graham as he feels those eyes on him, watching him.

"Atrocious aftershave, Will. You know that it doesn't cover the smell of you fear." The figure is rising, walking towards him. Graham doesn't move an inch. He can feel the clamminess that has taken residence in his previously dry hands. His visitor is standing next to him, and the hand is extended, reaching for the light switch. Graham blinks as the lamps illuminate the room, and again as he looks directly into the maroon eyes of the man that fills his nightmares.

"Dr. Lecter."

"Really, Will, do you think I'd forget about you after all these years?" He waves his left hand to the table he has just risen from. Graham notes the scar on his hand and the lack of his sixth finger. He swallows, meaning to speak, but he is cut off. "Come have a seat, Will. We have much to discuss."

"Your hand…" Graham asks as he compels his legs to move to the table. Hannibal holds it up to the light, turning it as if examining it for the first time. 

"Yes. I got that rather identifying feature removed. It aches a little in the cold, and causes some stiffness when I play, but otherwise is okay." He waits until Graham is seated before he settles down across from him. "Now, tell me of this man you and my little Starling are chasing."

Graham looks up at his tormentor, sees the calm face, and knows he will not compromise. He has no choice but to tell him everything.

"His name is Darryl Conrad…"

*****


	15. Sleepy Hollow

I promised gore, and here it is. Be warned dear ones, those of you with weak stomachs might want to turn away. Thank you to Kurt, the master of gore, for the idea. Okey dokey, here we go.

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The sun was seeping through the still closed curtains when Graham rolled over in his hotel bed the next morning. He was exhausted, more so than he had been when he had returned the previous afternoon. He was more than positive that encountering one's personal devil didn't help things. he grimaced at the visage that stared back at him in the bathroom mirror. His face was bad enough to look at as it was, and the lack of a good night's sleep and the addition of bloodshot eyes didn't help. He ran some water in the sink and splashed it over his Picasso face. It helped a little, but not much. His mind demanded Jack Daniels but he refused. They didn't bring him up here to be drunk. A knock on the door brought his head out of the bathroom.

"Coming." he grumbled wiping the water from his face. He didn't remember ordering room service, maybe it was another little present from the good doctor. He undid the numerous locks on the door and stood aside as a tall man pushed a stainless steel cart in through the door. The man smiled at him and Graham nodded, unable to manage anything polite this early. The man stopped the cart just past the closet, in the middle of the room, in front of the dresser and TV. The tall man picked a pad up from the tray and squinted at it.

"Eight twenty two, please." he smiled, looking Graham in the face. Graham thought it was odd that this guy didn't flinch at the sight of his face. Well, neither had Starling for that matter. He nodded at the pronounced cost of the meal and began to turn to find his wallet. He didn't see the leather sap slide from the man's sleeve as he turned his back. He did feel it as it came down at the back of his skull, though. Graham fell to the floor with a loud thump as the man secreted the sap away again. Twisted yellow teeth and glowing yellow eyes accompanied the smile on his face.

"Hello, Mr. Graham."

*****

Graham lay tied to the bed, secured tight against the mattress with yellow nylon ropes. His head dangled over the foot of the bed while his feet nudged the head board. A throbbing pain in the back of his head made itself known as he lay there, staring at the ceiling. A tug on the ropes revealed that he wouldn't be going anywhere quickly. Graham closed his eyes again, trying to think. A shadow passed over his lids and he felt a hand patting his cheek. 

"Wakey wakey, Mr. Graham." Darryl Conrad leaned over graham, appearing upside down in the other man's vision. "Hello."

A hiss escapes Graham's lips as he realizes who is his current captor. Going from his personal devil to the reincarnation of the man who mutilated him, it was the essence of fears and nightmares. The yellow eyes burned into his as he felt the thick hand clamp over his mouth.

"Shhhh. I have to say, I do admire what my predecessor did to your face. Very daring of him to try, though. To remove you from the order of things." Darryl turned away and reached under the cloth that covered the rolling cart. He withdrew a normal claw hammer and a well sharpened ax from the lower shelf. Graham felt his mouth go dry, causing him to choke on his own fear. Darryl met the sound with a devilish smile.

"Really, Mr. Graham, I can't have you around to interfere with my Becoming." The struggles against the ropes began with an intensity, as Graham tried to call for help. His cries earned him a piece of duct tape being slapped over his mouth. "Silence is preferred, Mr. Graham. I like the silence. It has an order about it, it is without chaos." The hammer was brought up and spun in the air, Darryl watching along with his victim as it flashed in the light. Moving to stand behind Will's head, Darryl raises the hammer. It swings down in a quick arc, the claw end slamming into Graham's forehead with a sickening _thunk_. Graham's eyes went wide and blood began to trickle from the wound. The hammer held firm as Darryl moved to stand next to him, now taking the ax in hand, and kneeling down next to Graham. 

"Goodbye, Mr. Graham." came the whisper as Darryl gripped the hammers handle for leverage. The ax swinging back and then down to his throat was the last image Graham would ever see.

*****

Clarice had just stepped from the shower when she heard the insistent knock at the front door. normally. The towel is wrapped around her head turban-style as she makes her way downstairs. Another knock comes as she reaches the foot of the stairs. 

"Coming." Clarice calls out, trying not to sound too agitated as she reached fro the door knob. Sunlight streams in along with the buzz of a lawnmower and the chair of birds as she pulls open the door. A lone square cardboard box sits atop her welcome mat. It is heavy as she lifts it, heavier than she would have thought. Something wet slides against her fingers from the bottom of the box. She assumes it to be water and wipes it against her robe. The package is deposited in the kitchen, atop the well scrubbed counter as she looks through the drawers fro a knife. Two quick slices to the brown packaging tape on either side and she tugs the flaps open. The tape tears neatly along the center of the flaps, and she pushes the flaps down to the side of the box. Foam packing peanuts greet her fingers, and she lifts the other two flaps before she digs through the peanuts. Something tickles at the back of her mind.

The first handful of peanuts is dumped on the counter, and she looks inside, trying to see the contents. A scream begins to form on her lips as the exploring fingers brush against the closed eyelids of Will Graham's severed head. 

*****


	16. In The Aftermath of Tragedy

Well, I'm very pleased to see that the last chapter was so well received. The "not writing gore anymore" isn't going to stand for long, Kurt and Chameleon convinced me otherwise last night. Reminding me that we are Lecterphiles and not Starlingphiles. LOL Thanks guys. Inspire my inner sociopath. Also, for my reviewers: Steel, Kurt, Chameleon, Nanci, Saavik, LadyOfTruths, Troesnaja, Luna, Diana, Horserider, Tara, and littlp. You guys are the reason I keep writing this stuff. Big giant 'Thank You' to all of you! Tralala and off we go…

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Graham was dead. Clarice tried to come to grips with the fact of the matter as she sat, chin resting in an open palm, staring out the window. She felt that she was to blame, at least partially. She was the one who had called him, convinced him to come up here to assist on the case. He was only supposed to look over the file, give an opinion, then return to his life in the keys, doing whatever it was he did with his days. But, she reasoned, he was the one who had decided to stay, offer his experience to catch the new Red Dragon. As she blinks Starling is absolute that it was the Dragon who had done this to Will. Finishing the job Francis Dolarhyde had begun all those years ago.

Her thoughts begin to wander then congeal into a theory. Graham wasn't just killed to finish the job. No, the Dragon didn't kill without reason. Graham was a stumbling block for him, something that prevented him from completing his so-called Becoming. So what did that bode for her? Did the Dragon see her as an obstacle too? Or was it something that roused a deeper fear, that he saw her as a step in his Becoming? Starling shudders at that thought, trying to brush it aside. She sat silently and listened to the other Agents that were left in her house. Soon they would be gone, and she would be summoned to Crawford's office.

The phone ringing brought her from her misery, and she cast a glance towards it. Slowly rising from the chair in the dining room she walked into the kitchen. The box that had contained Will's head was gone, but the blood stains from the seepage on the bottom of the box remained on the white counter. The physical presence of the blood would soon be removed, Pine-Sol could accomplish that with ease, but there would always be a stain on Starling's memory. She picked up the phone, ignoring the agents who chatted in the corner opposite from her.

"Hello?" she didn't realize how much exhaustion was in her voice as she spoke. The caller certainly did.

"Good morning, Clarice. How are you weathering the recent tragedy?" Cold seeps through Starling's veins as she listens to the metallic voice coming across the connection. His voice is as calm and dry as if he were asking about the weather they'd been having lately, as if Graham's murder were nothing more than idle chit-chat. She tries to contain her adverse reaction, instinctively that it would not be wise to draw attention to herself at this moment. His next sentence makes him appear to be omnipotent, as if he could see her actions and hear the thoughts in her brain. "No, don't draw attention to yourself, Special Agent Starling. That would really be an inconvenience for me."

The agents in the corner are stepping out of the kitchen, trying to appear polite by not eavesdropping on her conversation. Starling manages a wan smile at them as she presses the phone against her ear. "What do you want?" her voice is only a few notches above a whisper, and the rolling accent is prominent. Fear and exhaustion always did that.

"I am sorry to hear of Will's passing. Too bad, really, now you'll never get to ask him why we were just alike."

"Did you turn the killer on to him like you did before, Doctor…" she catches herself before she speaks the name. There may be no one in the kitchen, but the walls weren't exactly sound proof.

"No, I did not. I did stop in and have a little chat with him last night. We talked about the case, about your new Red Dragon. We talked about _you_, Clarice."

"Great." her voice was flat. She heard a dry chuckle on the other end.

"I can help you catch him, Special Agent Starling."

"Okay, how?" She was being drawn into his game once again. She waited with the same dreaded anticipation and fascination a fly waits with as the spider descends to web.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice. You tell me things, I tell you things."

"What do you want to know, Doctor…" Dammit, her tongue almost let it slip again. To make it worse, one of the agents was leaning in the doorway, telling her that they were leaving. Clarice presented him with a smile and nodded, waving him away. She held her breath until she heard the front door close. Alone. "What do you want to know, Dr. Lecter?"

"Something simple, dear Clarice. Something you owe me from before." a beat of silence, playing the waiting game.

"Okay."

"Have the lambs stopped screaming yet? Did saving Catherine Martin silence them? You were a hero, you know. Saved the doomed girl and killed the feared killer."

The reply is cautious. "They stopped… for a little while."

"That's what I suspected, Clarice. Do you think they'll stop if you capture the Red Dragon? You will tell me, won't you Clarice?"

"Maybe. You said you could help me catch him. Tell me Dr. Lecter."

A small sigh from the other end, like that of a patient teacher as he deals with the student that just can't comprehend. "First principles. I'm sure you've gone over them already."

"Yes. He's trying to achieve order. He's Becoming, Dr. Lecter."

"Very good. You know he is, don't you?"

"We have a name." again, she is being very cautious. She is fairly certain that he would not lie to her, but she cannot be sure.

"Ummmm. Yes. I know who he is, Clarice. He covets, like our dear Billy did. How do we begin to covet?" The voice of a teacher, continuing with the lesson plan, bringing the subject at hand slowly into the light.

"We covet what we see everyday."

"Good girl. Look closely about you Agent Starling. He's watching you."

Her eyes widened as she listened to him. "Who is he?!" it was too late. The connection had bee broken by him and she was speaking to the silence that precedes the dial tone. Again, she was left with a glimmer of a clue, but not quite enough of one. For once, as she hung up the phone, Starling wished he would give her a single direct answer.

*****

An elegant looking man sat on the patio of an apartment that was located behind the cul-de-sac that Clarice Starling's duplex occupied. A pair of Bushnell binoculars were raised to his eyes, trained on the kitchen window of the aforementioned duplex. A portable phone sat on the small glass table next to him, and a smile played across full red lips. In the binoculars' field of vision a woman paces, seen through the pane of window glass. She runs a hand through thick auburn hair and looks to the ceiling. Her head tilted back, exposing the length of her neck and throat, presenting a lovely picture for him. The glasses are slowly lowered and the tip of a pointed red tongue parts the lips. He was sorry about Will, he had been a good opponent. Much more so than either the incompetent Chilton or the over assuming Crawford. Yes, Will would be missed, since he would no longer have someone who was just alike to play his games with. Pity really. The glasses are raised again and the tongue returns to its lair, tracing over his teeth as he watches his Starling in her kitchen.

*****


	17. A Visit to a Well-Scrubbed Rube

So sorry this took so long to post, the week before Easter turns rather hectic for my family. My thoughts and prayers go out to Diana and her friend. Also please forgive me if anything should go astray in this chapter. I'm writing this while dealing with a nice little episode of vertigo. Grrr. It is not much fun, and rather difficult to write while the world spins on its own. Ah well, here we go with the beginning of the end. Ta-ta.

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For what seemed the first night in a long while, there was no rain to greet Clarice as she leaves the basement of Behavioral Sciences and walk to her car. The sun set with a marvelous russet glow, and left a distinct impression on her mind. She didn't place what the impression was of until she was halfway home. A single note of a single unknown song dropped the pieces into place for her, bringing the glow of his eyes into her mind's eye. It bothered Clarice slightly to know that even the simplest thing could bring him to mind, and for a moment she wondered if it would bring him to her as well. He was here, so close, but not where she could see. Tormenting her, promising help, but only giving her the thinnest of scraps to work with. All the en in her life seemed to come to her with the single intent to torment her. Crawford, Lecter, Jame Gumb, and now Darryl Conrad. All fell into the same category, and it frustrated her to no end.

_How do I keep attracting men like this?_ The thought was accompanied by an exasperated sigh as she seized her purse and climbed from the Escort. As luck would have it, the inner psychiatrist was notably absent and unavailable to provide an answer. She trudged across the parking lot, mentally reviewing the necessary items for tonight's dinner. A wire basket is carried in the crook of her arm as she passes up and down the aisles. She doesn't feel the intent gaze that follows her from behind a dark pair of sunglasses.

The checkout lines are non-existent, and she places her baskets contents on the counter, smiling up at the cashier. Her nametag reads "Hi! I'm Abby I'm in training!" as if being in training was something to be excited about. Something tumbles loose in Starling's mind, and she notices something is different.

"Where's D tonight, Abby?"

A shadow of momentary doubt crosses the girl's face then clears. "He called in sick today. Do you know him or something?"

Something. "Not really. I was just curious." the smile Starling flashes and the explanation are lost on the girl, since she ceased listening right after supplying the answer.

"Seven eighty two." the pronounced total is met with a ten, and Clarice struggles to contain her impatience as Abby struggles to make the right change. She takes the receipt and her change, and is dismissed from the store with a dull "Have a nice evening." Starling tucks the bag under her arm and strolls back to her car. The intense eyes are still following her.

*****

Petra sits on the rear patio of her other's Baltimore home, staring out at the sunset. Idly, it occurs to her that the sun has turned a color that is very close to the color of his eyes. It causes a slight shudder in her as she reaches fro the sketchpad that sits on the patio table in front of her. The chair is moved back, iron legs scraping against the concrete, as she props her feet up on the table leg. An unfinished picture of the Duomo covers the page, a thin sheaf of photographs paper clipped in the corner. The charcoal is taken form the table and she begins to work on the sketch. She continues for a few minutes before growing frustrated. She unclips the photographs and turns the page.

The charcoal moves slowly over the paper, her fingers gripping it tightly. Petra doesn't really see what she is drawing, just letting her fingers seemingly move of their own accord. The photographs are shuffled, and re-clipped as she lays the one she wants on top. Within moments a figure starts to emerge, a slim man with regal carriage, leaning against the doorway. The Duomo makes its appearance in the background, the man's eyes are focused on it. She rests the pad against her legs and lets her hand seek the pencil box. A few moments of rummaging produces her prize. The eyes of the figure are the only color on the page, and they seem to glow with life in the setting sun in Baltimore. 

*****

The duplex struck her as unnaturally silent as Clarice slipped her key from the lock. It is deposited on the table in the entryway, and she slips from the black pumps she got on sale three weeks ago. Memories echoes in her ears as she pads to the kitchen, nylons sliding over the linoleum.

"_Do you know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes?_" she heard him ask from the depths of her memory. She bit her lip as she dropped the grocery bag on the counter. She didn't know she spoke aloud, answering the remembered question with his own words.

"I look like a rube. I'm a well scrubbed hustling rube with a little taste." she blinked upon hearing the word taste, reflected off the glass front cabinets that occupied the kitchen. " Squelching the urge to drive a fist through one of those cabinets she suffered her irritation with a sigh. He was always there, always with her. Now he was there, present in her life as a real person, for the first time in five years. The package of chicken thighs is removed from the bag, deposited in the stainless steel sink awaiting her. 

The first stars are beginning to emerge in the evening sky, if one is to step away form the lights and look straight up, where the sky is darkest. It has become habit, her routine for five years now, to step outside onto the porch, and stare up at the sky. Some of their stars were the same, and tonight all of them were. An involuntary shiver always accompanies the impromptu stargazing, urging her back inside. Tonight, Starling stood out there longer, staring up and wishing that she could reach out for one of those stars, capture it like a lightning bug, and keep it in a jar by her bed. As a child she had tried, reaching as far as she could, even climbing the tree in the backyard on one attempt. Then, and now, she couldn't reach the stars. 

*****

The front door is eased open, and a key secreted back into a trouser pocket after it is slipped from the lock. The door closes easily on well oiled hinges, never emitting a sound. The house feels weighted with the ghosts of memories, and although it is clean, does not strike him as orderly. Never mind that, he wasn't seeking this one for Order. He was seeking her merely an indulgence for his Becoming. A pleasant sacrifice to appease the Red Dragon, to appease him. He hears the back door open and close, and freezes in the hallway. No footsteps so she must be outside. She cannot see into the kitchen from the back porch, since it is accessed by a door in the dining room. 

Heavy footsteps tread the linoleum, and he steps into the white kitchen. A package of chicken sits in the sink. Dinner. In preparation for deboning the thighs in the package, it is cheaper to do it herself then buy the boneless chicken, a knife lays on the counter. He fingers it for a moment, then decides it is not properly suited. There is a butcher block on the opposite counter, and he reaches for the large chef's knife that rest in the block. It is an eight-inch Henckels professional knife, indicating someone in the duplex is serious about their kitchen implements. It is held behind his back in his right hand, happy with the weight and feel of it.

The back door opens and he scurries into the opposite side of the duplex. He listens to her in the kitchen, waiting for a few moments, preparing himself. He has never had anyone struggle, not even the unexpected one, the dark haired one. It excites him and his grip on the knife tightens. Yes, the Dragon would enjoy her tonight.

*****

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	18. One Step Closer in the Becoming

The chicken is lifted from the sink, removed from the package, and deposited then on a cutting board. Clarice takes the deboning knife in hand and wonders for a moment, absurdly, if Dr. Lecter ever deboned any of his victims. As the sharp blade cuts into the thigh she decides that she'll just have to ask him the next time she sees him. Hopefully, as much as she may want him in her life, it won't be anytime soon. She hears a clink and a crash come from Ardelia's side of the duplex. Staring into the darkened dining room on Delia's side she tries to make something out of the shadows. 

A firm grip is kept on the deboning knife as she steps into the dark and perfectly clean living room. Knowing her luck, it'd be Lecter himself and he'd jump out of the shadows and kill her. _With some fava beans and a big Amarone_, her mind snickered. Yeah, that's it. She found the light switch and flipped it, illuminating the white couches and armchairs. A vase lay shattered next to the coffee table.

Haunted. No one was in the room with her, and unless they had raccoons running around inside or mice that escaped from the lab of some mad scientist… _Oh, wait. I _do_ know a mad scientist. Well, a mad doctor at least._ At that moment the quip was a release fro her tension and she was unable to stifle the giggle that accompanied it. Walking out of the living room, she heard another crash, this one from upstairs. Thinking that she should go and retrieve her gun from the other side of the duplex was pushed aside. Yeah, go get the gun and then let whoever it is get away with who knows what of Delia's stuff? The knife would have to suffice as her weaponry.

Check the front door first, still locked. Okay, so how'd the person, thing, ghost, whatever get in? A quick trot back to Delia's dining room revealed that the back door was also quite undisturbed. So it came in on her side of the house. How nice, wasn't her stuff nice enough to get stolen? Absurd thoughts, being jealous because she wasn't the one being robbed. She edged up the stairs, pressing her back against the smooth wall. Careful around the corner, looking before she came around. Don't want to get your head taken off for being dumb.

A scratching sound came from Delia's bedroom. Raccoons, as her first thought, but how'd they get in there? As long as it wasn't a rabid coon she could handle it. Clarice placed a hand on the doorknob and heard the scratching stop. She was probably going to have to hunt it down in Delia's room, but as long as she could catch the damned thing. She cracked the door, firmly planting a foot in the crack and easing in. She didn't look behind her since she assumed her quarry was only a little animal.

She heard the creak of the floorboard right before she whipped around. "What the fuck…?!" her question was met with a solid _thunk_ on the side of her head that sent her to the floor. Dazed and in pain she dropped the knife, felt it bump against her leg as it hit the carpet. She looks up at her assailant and dimmed eyes register surprise that it is, in fact, not the good doctor. The man towering over her, bending now to pull her roughly to her feet is someone that is much, much more terrifying.

Lips curl back, revealing yellow teeth in that rictus grin, the one that reminds her of the Joker. Eyes the color of sulfur burn into her gaze, driving into the depths of her soul. He echoes the same words that Dr. Lecter uses, but it does more than unnerve her, it drives the fear home in her heart.

"Hello, Clarice."

*****

Dr. Lecter relaxes in the cool evening air, comfortable in the patio chair on his deck. A glass of wine sits at his elbow on the glass table, along with the portable phone and the Bushnells. He has been watching her since sunset, when she emerged fro a few gorgeous minutes to stare up at the sky. He didn't know that she had been doing that for the past five years, that his letter had reached her so deeply. He had watched through the Bushnells as she shivered, and dropped her gaze to the horizon, seeking more emerging stars. The sky is now a deep indigo, and looks as if diamonds had been spilt across a velvet plain. 

He sees the light go on and off momentarily on her housemate's side of the duplex, on the upper level. A few moments later he sees the living room lights come up. He grasps the binoculars and raises them, carefully adjusting the focus. She passes through the living room, something glints in the grip of her right hand. HE wonders what she is doing, and wishes that he could see more. Alas, his view is limited to that of a voyeur, looking in windows. He sees the light upstairs come on again, remain on for a few moments more this time, then go dark again. Clarice's activities have his full attention now.

He waits, and although he is more than curious about what his little Starling is doing, it does not agitate him in any way. His breathing remains calm and steady, as does his heartbeat. Now, a rather large figure has stepped into the living room. It is not Clarice, which causes a sharp intake of breath. Tall, weighing in at over two hundred pounds, he estimates. The man, it can only be a man, move with a feline grace, almost in imitation of a cat. The figure bends, disappearing from view, then reappears with something draped in his arms.

Now is the time for alarm, as Dr. Lecter draws the only conclusion he can. He rises from his chair in a single fluid motion, returning the binoculars to the table as he does so. The wine and phone are promptly abandoned and forgotten. Inside his temporary home, the slippers are exchanged for a pair of running shoes. A leather jacket is donned, new and very soft. A leather sap is procured from the table by the closet, and slid into the jacket's sleeve. The last piece f the ensemble is also taken from the table. Its weight is pleasant in his hand, new and not yet broken in. The Harpy is unsheathed once, examined briefly in the light, the sheathed and placed in the right pocket of the leather jacket. He takes a single key from his trouser pocket, and carefully locks the door behind him. 

*****


	19. Lamb to the Slaughter

The world is a rather painful place to come crashing back in to, as Clarice discovered. Her head was throbbing back behind her left earlobe as she rolled her head slightly to the side. She blinked a few times, trying to force the spinning room into focus. Her arms and legs felt rather stiff and she tried to bend her elbow to release the tension in her right hand. The roughness of the nylon rope that held her wrist bit onto the soft flesh. She rolled her head right, eyeing the rope, then to the left, seeing the procedure repeated. Managing to lift her head up slightly, she glimpsed the ropes that bound her ankles similarly at the bottom edge of her vision.

A thump of footsteps on the stairs brings her head in that direction. She listens to the heavy footfalls, vainly struggling against her unwelcome bonds. Starling knows all too well that if she cannot free herself, that she is almost certainly committed to her death. A death that would come at the hands of the serial killer she was chasing. The image of Graham's severed head underneath the packing peanuts rose unbidden in her mind. One of her worst fears was true, that she was a sacrifice in Darryl Conrad's becoming. 

The footsteps are coming closer, and her breathing and pulse rate climb. Hear she is tied, defenseless, unable to protect herself or escape from her tormentor. Clarice Starling was unsure of how to deal with the realization she was coming to. That she, was indeed, a lamb. A lamb being led to the slaughter, too frightened to save herself, too afraid to do anything but let the death come. Clarice Starling closes her eyes as the door to the bedroom swings open, letting light from the hall fall across her bed. She has no savior, no one to carry her from the slaughter. She has failed herself, has failed to save the lambs, and their screams, and her own, rings in her ears.

*****

Darryl Conrad steps through the door way, shadow crossing the stream of light that is emitted from the open door. He pauses to carefully close the door behind him, and he can feel her eyes upon him. He is patient, containing the writhing beast within him. He watches as Clarice squeezes her eyes tightly shut, a tiny moan escaping her lips as she does so. He can feel her fear as it pulses through her veins. It is almost a living thing in itself. He saunters over to the bed, settling lightly on the edge and looking at his prize. 

"Clariiiice." he draws the name out, watching as she shivers but otherwise does not react. He grabs her chin roughly and turns her face to his. Her eyes open, and he finds himself smiling at the sight of them. "Lesson number one, you will look at me when I speak to you."

Clarice nods imperceptibly. He smiles at her, and her eyes focus on his hand as it slips from behind his back. They grow wide and the glint of metal reflects in her pupils. The deboning knife looks wicked in the dim light of the bedroom. He parted with the chef's knife while he was downstairs in the kitchen. He slowly raises it to stroke her cheek with it, amused as her eyes remain focused on it.

He feels the quickening of her breath as she feels the cold steel on her face. The breath then hitches in her throat as he draws the sharp blade down her cheek. A light scratch, nothing more than to cause her to bleed. Her reaction causes his own controlled breathing to quicken, and he struggles momentarily to retain the Order. He lays his left hand on her chest, feeling her tremble under the silk blouse she wears. The deboning knife slides down the silk, and the purring scheme of the cut fabric is music to him. He carefully parts the blouse, gaze flicking from her face to the pale chest and lace bra he has revealed. Beautiful. Perfectly fitting for the Dragon.

*****


	20. Emerging Dragon

Well, dear ones, have I tortured you enough? Are you squirming in you seats as you await the next chapter? I only try to please. Huge thank-yous to Troesnaja, for helping me hash out the fine details of harm and torture. She is as gory as Kurt. Next, to LadyOfTruths. I can only say I'm sorry for not reading and reviewing your story earlier. The sad things that happen when I get busy. I am deeply honored by you. Okey dokey then, here we go.

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Clarice has her eyes squeezed shut, feeling the blood that trickles down her cheek like a tear. He watches her reaction as he uses the knife to slice the bra apart. He pushes the now ruined pieces of lace and fabric apart and lays the knife against her pale skin. He wonders for a moment, then stares intently at the knife. No. He can think of something better for her. He stands from the bed, watching to see her eyes open into slits, pupils watching him as he goes back to the door. 

*****

Clarice lay on the bed, intensely aware of ever sensation on her body. The twine of the ropes, the blood on her cheek, the brush of the cool air against the now bare nipples. She began to struggle again, wiggling her fingers and curling her hands into fists, hoping she could somehow reach the knots in the ropes. The ropes chaffed her wrists, hurting the tender skin, the only result of her struggles. Unwillingly, her eyes begin to tear as she resigns herself to a death at the hands of a monster. She had been raised with a belief in God, but felt as if she were abandoned by him in the time of need.

A grimace crosses her face as she hears the footsteps coming back up the stairs. It seemed to take an eternity for Darryl to reach her door again. Still in slow motion, the door opened and he stepped into the room. The knife had been replaced with something else in his hands, something which she couldn't identify. He crosses the space between them swiftly and settles down on the bed next to her. He lays the object on the bed and leans to undo the knot in the rope binding her right wrist. She recognizes the object now, but cannot register why he would need a cheese grater.

"Now, listen to me, Clarice. Do not try to run when I undo these ropes. To do so, will only make your experience all the more painful, understand me?" Sulfuric eyes met hers and burned with an evil intensity.

"I understand." she whispered. He loosed the hand and held the rope above her body. He let it drop onto her bared chest as he leaned to unbind her ankle. Clarice didn't move an inch.

*****

The front door on Clarice's side of the duplex eases open, the person entering being quite careful not to make a sound. He pauses in the hallway, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. The main level of the duplex is dark on Clarice's side, save for the kitchen. His nostrils flare as he takes in the air of the house. The scent of Clarice is unmistakable. Evyan skin crème and l'Air du Temps lingered in the air, marking her. He works his way to the kitchen, moving slowly to avoid running into anything. A pause, looking around the corner into the kitchen, the sap sliding neatly into his hand. No one there, not even a trace of the chicken in the sink. He knows there was chicken, he can smell it strongly in the air there. A creak above him draws his attention to the stairs.

*****

Clarice was now bound resting on her stomach, still spread eagle on the bed. He had removed the remnants of her bra and was sitting on the right edge of the bed, studying her. He had to do this right, he wanted to cause her pain. Just once, to hear a scream that would shatter the order if only for a moment. Something that he could always remember, something to bring into focus when he felt the urge to stray, to abandon the Dragon. Darryl knows that he will die if he ever abandons the Red Dragon, the pain Agent Starling would be a reminder then, of what happens to those who don't acknowledge the Red Dragon. It would also be more pleasurable to remember the pale face of her than the twisted visage of Will Graham. The mattress bounces as he rises from it. His foot steps on a squeaky floor board, and he waits for the silence before he starts to move again. He takes the cheese grater and leans over to look at Clarice.

*****

Clarice tenses as he looks into her face again, she remains stoic as she stares back, trying not to show him any fear. Her heart flutters like a caged bird though, she swears she can feel frenzied wings against her ribcage. She can see him standing again, straightening til his face s out of her range of vision. With him out of sight, she is reduced to her other senses again. She can feel the bed shift and bounce as he climbs back onto it. The warmth of his body as he kneels between her spread legs. The skirt and nylons still cover her lower body, and she is very aware of an itch behind her left knee. The bed shifts again as he leans forward. She feels his breath on her back, the cold steel of the old cheese grater. All this is forgotten in an instant though, as he drags the grater down the length of her spine. It is light pressure at first, but it makes her whimper. A whisper from his lips hangs in the air above her sobs.

"Good." The grater is returned to the top of her back for a second pass, more pressure this time. The whimpers are abandoned as Clarice screams into the night.

*****

Darryl Conrad pauses to survey his work after the fifth pass. He has been increasing the pressure each time, enjoying her screams and the sobs during the time it takes him to return the utensil to the top of her back. The length of her spine, from roughly shoulders to buttocks is a red, bloody mess. Little shavings of pale skin hang on the grater and a few in the blood. He smiles as he leans forward and blows across the wound he is creating, eliciting another scream from his sacrifice. He can feel the Dragon emerging inside him, watching with pleasure as he resumes his work. He leans forward once again, positioning the cheese grater, and begins the sixth pass. He does not know it will be the last.

*****


	21. To Twist Fate

Cruel and unusual punishment, dear ones? How I love to torture everyone. Special thanks to Kurt, continuing on his path to inspire my inner sociopath. Okey dokey, here we go, the GD to the rescue, so we won't have grated Parmesan Clarice. Hope you've been having as much fin as I, dear ones. Ta-ta and on with the torture.

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The screams issuing from the upstairs hall, muffled only slightly from the closed bedroom door, caused the good doctor to freeze in his tracks. For one of the very few times in his life, fear had rooted him to the spot. His mind races, retrieving images of his sister from the locked rooms where they are kept. Seeing her blood trailed on the snow, feeling the pain in his arm as the heavy bark door is slammed shut on it. Finding her teethe days alter in the stool pit. Perspiration beads Dr. Lecter's forehead momentarily as he comes to a decision. He will not lose Clarice to the monsters as he had lost Mischa.

Dr. Lecter is quick and nimble on his feet, and he ascends the stair with little difficulty. The screams from Clarice are enough to mask any noise he might make on the stairs. The sap is exchanged for the Harpy as he pauses momentarily outside the bedroom door. His pulse rate is slightly above one hundred from the run up the stairs, but quickly returns to normal. He hears the pleading sobs from Clarice, and he can smell the scent of torn flesh and fresh blood heavy and metallic on the air. Underneath it, he can hear the bedsprings creak as the monster shifts, probably preparing to hurt Clarice again. There is no time to waste.

*****

Conrad's head whipped to the door as it opened, letting a shadow into the room, the length of it falling across the bed and his sacrifice's ruined back. He did not have time to react well as the shadow crossed the length of the room, snarling and baring its teeth like a wolverine. The shadow was atop him, pulling him off the bed and throwing him against the far wall. Darryl hit the drywall and almost went through it, his arm was stopped by a stud, and the force of the hit caused a fracture in his arm. He growled and pushed himself to his feet, seeing that the shadow was cutting the bonds that held his sacrifice. He wobbled as he stood, but it was not Darryl at all when he lunged back across the room.

*****

It is an unusual sight, and a rare one indeed dear one, to see Dr. Hannibal Lecter in a position of compassion. Careful with the Harpy, he cuts the ropes that bind his dear Clarice to the bed. Her wrists are raw from scraping against the nylon rope, and he takes care not to hurt her anymore than she already has been. Her eyes water as she connects with his, slowly recognizing him through the haze of pain. We hear a quiet whisper issue from her lips, and watch as the good doctor wipes at some of the tears. He is careful to avoid touching the cut in her cheek, the blood now mingled with the tears. We can see his lips move as he whispers to her, his scarred left hand stroking the auburn hair. His gaze leaves her and he draws a sharp intake of breath at the sight of her back. He rises to his feet, looking at the damage that the monster has done. It is very painful, dear one, as that is evidenced by Clarice's current state and the continuing gasps and sobs from her lips. 

Dr. Lecter knows that it will leave a scar on his dear Clarice, one that will be physical as well as mental. It will also leave a scar on him, knowing that he was not able to rescue her before she was harmed. At least, and it was the tiniest of consolations, she was not dead, had not met the same fate as little Mischa. He is leaning closer to examine the wound as we see him twist suddenly, Harpy bared and lashing out quick. The blade catches the Dragon across the abdomen, and almost instantly blood begins to seep through his shirt as a look of surprise crosses his face. Another flash of the Harpy as the Doctor is upon him again. 

Clarice cannot see much from her limited viewpoint, but she can hear the grunts from both men as they struggle. Another wave of pain washes over her as she moves slightly, and she blacks out.

*****

Clarice feels herself jolted as she is pulled from the bed. Strong hands and arms roll her over onto her back, and even in her half-conscious state she screams. The realization that the arms that are lifting her are not Dr. Lecter's roars defiantly in her brain. She catches a glimpse of the Dragon's face before her eyes slide shut again. Where was Hannibal Lecter? Forcing her eyes open again, she looks about the room from her jolting position. There, next to the door, he lay limply against the wall. Unconscious, judging from the form. Her one chance at living, was now out cold. She felt her stomach twist terribly, almost on par with the pain in her back. She could feel the rough cotton of her captor's shirt rub against her wounds, causing sparks to fly before her eyes, but it didn't erase the image of the Doctor limp against the wall.

The basement of the duplex is dark and musty, home to an innumerable number of spiders. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and brushed against the Dragon's head as he passed through them. Clarice feels something plop against her leg and scurry along the nylons. In her current state, the thought of a Brown Recluse was not enough to frighten her. She felt herself lowered and shoved roughly against a wall. She emitted a scream at the rough concrete pushing into her ruined back. If the Dragon noticed, he didn't give any sign. He grabbed her hands and bound them tightly together in her lap, then he moved to her ankles. he gave a satisfied grunt and stepped back to survey her.

*****

Dr. Lecter groaned as he came crashing back to consciousness. The world swam as he opened his eyes to look upon the bedroom. He had been caught off guard when his opponent had punched him solidly in the throat. He estimated that he had only been out for a few moments, but it was enough time for the situation to have changed. He pushed himself up and saw that Clarice was no longer on the bed, nor was the Dragon anywhere to be seen in the room. He carefully rose and leaned against the wall while he fought to get his balance back. A trickle of fear found its way into his calm and he lit upon it instantly. His sister's blood on the snow rose before his eyes, the memory as pale and frightening as a ghost. No, he will not let the fate of death come to Clarice. He lurches from the wall, and opens the door, stepping out into the lit hall. Pausing there, Lecter closes his eyes and lets himself think. He moves down the stairs, hoping he is right in knowing where they had gone.

*****

The house shivers and creaks in the night, the only witness to the events that are transpiring within its walls. The shadows watch as Lecter makes his way down the stairs, left hand firmly on the rail, guiding him in the semi-darkness. A light flares beneath the door to the basement, as the floorboards creak softly beneath him. The sound has given him away, as the shadows in the basement see the Dragon look to the ceiling. Clarice's tears fall from her face to the cold concrete below, and the Dragon steps towards her again. Footsteps becoming clearer as they come down the stairs, slowing as time draws itself out in sheer torture. Hannibal Lecter must hurry now, if he wishes to spare Clarice of her fate.

*****


	22. In The End

LOL Thank you all for you extremely kind reviews. I am so glad that you are still here reading this. Okay, I promise to finish soon… Real soon. Oh yes, I must not forget to give credit where credit is due: Karma is begging for recognition for her cheese grater idea. (She suggested it, I did the rest.) There you go, Karma, I hope it soothes your ego. Chameleon, it wasn't going to be twenty chapters in the first place, but the GD and assorted others keep adding to it. (Yes, my evil cohorts, you know who you are.) I think that's all. I'll go back to listening to the classical station and finish the chapter. Nothing else should tempt fate, the GD promises. (He HAS to promise, since he's a bit tied up at the moment) Okey dokey, dear ones, here we go!

*****

The cold and fear seem to absorb into each other and close tightly around Starling as she waits against the basement wall. She can see the doctor's imperial figure crossing the basement towards her and the Dragon. His face is calm but carries an undercurrent of anger. He is very deadly. The Dragon steps away from Clarice, coming to face Dr. Lecter. Even in the dim light, the Harpy glitters like the eyes of a snake. The Dragon lunges, and if Clarice were to imagine hard enough, she could see a red tail lashing the air as he does so. Lecter is prepared this time, and meet him head on. The men grapple in front of her, each struggling for purchase and the upper hand. Another flash of the Harpy, and Clarice hears a scream that is, for the first time this night, not her own. 

The Dragon staggers back a few feet, gripping his shoulder where he was stabbed. Twisted teeth bared, he launches himself back at Lecter. Again, he is driven back, a little too far this time, as he almost steps into Starling's lap. She cries out, and Lecter's eyes meet hers. It is a look very few have seen, and most who do are guaranteed an almost certain death. She sees the hunger in his eyes, can see what the world has termed 'Monster' staring out at her. A shiver works its way through her body, thoroughly chilling her. The Dragon sees it too, and his steps falter slightly as he begins to confront the doctor once again. The Dragon is no longer standing upright, but slightly hunched, trying to protect his cut abdomen and the stabbed shoulder. A wicked grin crosses Lecter's face as he lunges forward, a half-snarl issuing from his parted lips. 

The Harpy lashed out, quick as a mongoose striking at a cobra, and Lecter danced back just as quickly to avoid the arterial spray that erupted from the Dragon neck. A few drops of blood his face and he wiped them away, a slightly smug expression on his face. The Dragon twitched slightly on the concrete floor just beyond Starlings bound feet as the life bled out of him. She heard a last gurgle and watched as the body fell still. She was stunned, and couldn't take her eyes from the man that lay before her, when she finally did, they came to rest on the man standing before her. She held her breath as he wiped the blade on the untucked tail of the deceased's shirt, and then stepped to her. Dr. Lecter knelt down gently next to her, near her feet, and cut the rope binding her ankles. He shuffled closer to the wall and gently reached for her wrists. The pain that had been momentarily forgotten made itself known, and Clarice screamed as the shifting of her arms brought her into contact with the wall.

Lecter reached out and touched her face briefly, soothingly. He pondered for a moment, with Clarice's gaze sweeping over him. How to get her upstairs without causing her much more in the way of pain? There really wasn't any good way to do this, but he had to try to avoid her back as much as possible. He helped her to her unsteady feet, and once she was away from the wall, got a good look at the bloodstain there. Pushing the image away he bent again while supporting Clarice and slung her over his shoulder. He was very aware that is was not a dignified position for her, and that he probably looked like a Neanderthal dragging the captured woman back to his cave. He carried her up the stairs, leaving the body of Darryl Conrad where it lay. there would be time for him later.

*****

Clarice recognizes her bedroom from her upside down viewpoint. Not that the viewpoint was all THAT bad, considering she was getting a nice view of the doctor's rear end. Something in her pain dulled mind was jumping around excited about that, but she couldn't quite grasp it. She felt herself lowered again, being supported by his strong arms. He helped her to lie on the bed, and paused to stroke her hair before he headed in the direction of the bathroom. She could hear the cabinets being opened and closed. She tried to shift and was rewarded with a shock of pain. Too bad, she had kept hoping that it was just a dream.

Hannibal Lecter pushes through the cabinets both above and below Clarice's sink, hoping to find something that will help him. All she had to offer was a mediocre first aide kit that contained the bare essentials as antibacterial ointment and Band-Aids. There was half a roll of medical tape as well, the waterproof kind. He grimaced, resigning himself to the fact that he'd have to call the authorities and let them treat her. He gathered the first aide kit and a couple towels into his arms before heading back to the bedroom. He noticed Clarice watching him through pain glazed eyes. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She sucked in a deep breath as he lay the supplies on the bed beside her and once again knelt to look in her eyes. She really couldn't pull back as he again reached up to her face to caress it. He didn't answer her question, only looked at her with those maroon eyes. Okay, a different question. "You promised that you wouldn't call on me again."

"And I'm not, Clarice. Let us say I am here by divine intervention, shall we? If I were here to call on you, you would be laying dead on the basement along with Mr. Conrad." he had risen as he spoke, and settled himself on the bed, picking through the supplies he had. all Clarice had was a clear view of his knee cap, the dark fabric stained with dust from the numerous scuffles he had endured that evening. He took a towel and stood from the bed again.

"Don't go anywhere, Clarice. I will be right back." The tone of his voice indicated that he found his little warning to be amusing. 

__

Well, let him be the one indisposed next time and we'll see how funny it is. Like I could go anywhere anyway. She grumped in her mind, hearing water being run in the tub. He came back with the now wet towel and resumed his seat on the bed. 

"Now, this is going to hurt a little. Your back is really a mess." And he wasn't kidding. Clarice gasped as he began wiping blood from around the wound. Every now and again a corner of the terry cloth would catch in the wound. She squirmed whenever this happened, earning herself reprimands from the good doctor.

"That hurts, you know." she informed her, voice having gained a little strength.

"I warned you that it would." he looked through the meager supplies and sighed. "You should invest in a more useful first aide kit."

"Well, I wasn't expecting to be attacked with a friggin cheese grater in my own home by some serial killer, you know."

Starling swore she heard a chuckle from him as he resumed his cleaning process. He could do little more than dab away the blood, getting a deeper glimpse of the wound. he could clean it better if he took her into the shower, but he was sure that his little FBI agent would not approve of him seeing her unclothed and in the shower. He did his best with what he had, humming softly to himself as he worked. Clarice let her displeasure be known once again.

"That HURTS!" it was just short of a yelp as she moved away from him as well she could.

"So you've informed me before." she tried to twist her head to look at him, and he opened the towel wide, placing it over the bloody mess. "Relax, Clarice. I will go get you some pain relievers and be right back." He stood once again and headed down the stairs, closing the bedroom door behind him. Clarice let her head settle into the pillow and sighed, fluffing loose bangs from her forehead. What a wonderful evening this had become.

*****

Dr. Lecter had not lied to Starling when he said that he was retrieving some pain relievers for her, but he had not told her what else he had to do. He was slowly coming back up the basement stairs carrying the heavy weight of a dead body. He wanted to have a little fun since he was having to call the authorities. He paused ta the top of the stairs, looking up at the banister above him. It would work. The body of Darryl Conrad is carried up the stairs, and he pauses on the landing, lowering the body. He pulls the remnants of the ropes that bound Clarice from his pocket. They were still of good length, even after being severed by his Harpy. It takes him a few minutes to finish the task, and he is pleased with the results as he leans over the banister to look down on the body.

Back down the stairs to complete the next task. He finds her Rolodex in the kitchen, by her phone. A few moments of rifling through it provides him with the number he wants. The man he was calling would surely alert the local authorities and emergency personnel for him. The phone is lifted from its cradle and he dials the number with long, slim musician's fingers. He waits through the rings, tapping his fingers idly against the counter.

"FBI, Behavioral Services." the woman's voice is clear and young. It makes him smile.

"Yes, can I please speak to Jack Crawford?"

"May I tell him who's calling?"

"Just an old friend, he'll know what I mean."

"Okay. Hold please." he is placed on hold accompanied by irritating elevator music. Fortunately his wait is not long.

"Crawford."

"Well, hello, Jack. It is so good to hear your voice, again. It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Who is… Oh god." you can hear the realization drop into Crawford's voice with the sound of a stone being dropped into a pond. "What do you want?"

A dry laugh escapes Lecter's lips. "I'm glad you remember me too, Jack. But, this is not a social call. No. I wanted to let you know that the Red Dragon paid a little visit to your protégé."

"You monster. If you've done _anything_ to harm her, Lecter."

"I assure you, I have not. She does need medical attention, Jack. He did rough her up a bit." He can hear Crawford talking to someone else in the office, hear the intensity and anger in his voice. Torment was such fun. "I have to go now, Jack. Take care, and do hurry."

"Lecter!" the name was issued just short of a yell.

"Ta-ta." he replaced the phone and let his fingers linger momentarily on it. He turned to go upstairs and give Clarice her promised pain relievers, and to say goodbye. Fortunately, goodbyes aren't forever.

*****


	23. Epilogue

Thank you, thank you, thank you all for staying with me through this torture test! I love you all deeply. I really appreciate having received such a response to this tale. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Cheers!

**************************************************************************************

Two Years Later

The air in Florence is warm as she slips from the apartment she has rented there. In ways, everything has changed since her last visit, in ways, it has all remained the same. She walks through the streets, eyes carefully shaded by a pair of Fossil sunglasses. Slowly winding her way to the post office, walks inside, and lowers the glasses from her face. Stunning green eyes read over the signs and posters that decorate the building's interior. She steps to the counter, producing a claim slip and asking for her package. The clerk takes the slip and shuffles to the mail room behind her to find it. The green eyes rest in a blue wanted poster that hangs on the wall. _Il Mostro_. She had seen a poster like it before, on the wall of the Behavioral Sciences department of the FBI, when she had visited Clarice Starling there.

The clerk returns with a thick padded envelope, and shoves the slip back at her, along with a pen. She does not sign her real name, since it was not addressed to her in that manner. She nods her thanks to the public servant and tucks the envelope into her satchel. The Fossil sunglasses are replaced and she steps back out into the sunlight.

Alone, in her apartment, she slides a letter opener under the flap of the envelope to break the seal. She carefully shakes the contents out onto the tabletop, fingers sorting through them. In turn, a passport, identification, cash, bankbooks, and keys are held to the light and inspected. She wears a pair of cotton gloves, so there are no fingerprints on the items. His instructions were very strict on that. Nothing could ever be connected to her, and she could not be connected to him. Her life had changed thanks to one long night in his home.

As she listens to the cello of Yo-Yo Ma echo over the speakers, if she remembers hard enough, she can feel the prick of the needle once again. There are times she wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. She often wonders why she agreed to aid him. Not as often as she once did, but still more than she should. He has provided her with a comfortable life here, but he expects exacting obedience in return. She is willing to oblige him. 

Hours later, the documents are now sealed in a plain white envelope and are once more residing in her satchel. She always trembles when she steps inside a chapel here, and today is no different. She smiles and explains to the priest that she is part of the restoration team. It is only a partial lie, there is a restoration team, they were here last week doing preliminary studies of the small church of Santa Reparata. He nods as he listens to her, smiling and waving her into the storeroom to retrieve the ladder she needs. He helps her carry it into the church. She thanks him and scurries up it, face close to the wall as she ascends. Inches away hangs the Devil's Armor, coated in soft dust so that it looks as if it were covered in velvet. She duly removes a tape measure from her pocket, making measurements and inspecting the armor itself. She is careful not to let her breath stir the dust. 

Glancing down now, she sees that the priest has left her. She is alone now, high above the pews and suspended next to the armor. She slips her hand into the satchel, which is still slung over her shoulder. Carefully, the white envelope is removed, along with a tiny spool of monofilament line. The line has a fishing hook tied to one end. She carefully secures the line to the envelope, and unwinds the line. The envelope rests against her thigh as she carefully lifts the visor on the helmet. The hook is set on the lip of the gorget and the envelope lifted, carefully being deposited inside. It now hangs the cuirass where the heart would be as she lowers the visor. She knows the next person to touch it will be him.

A few more minutes of her idle measurements and inspection before she descends from her perch. She walks back to the foyer of the chapel, seeking the priest. He helps her remove the ladder and return it to the storeroom. She smiles and thanks him again. She slips the sunglasses on once again as she steps into the afternoon light. A glance at her watch indicates she needs to hurry. She reaches the Jaguar and pulls the keys from her pocket. She is grateful for the transportation, and feels slightly guilty for depriving him of his car. The fear of running late causes her to floor the accelerator as she heads back to Florence. Petra Morricone has never been late for a meeting with the good doctor, for he would consider it quite _rude_. She slips a tape into the deck and settles back slightly, as the _Goldberg Variations_ fill the interior. She could not ask for a better life. 

*****

Washington DC, early morning. The skies above the city are just beginning to clear as the old Ford Econoline van pulls out from the garage. The rumble of the V8 engine trembles back through the van, vibrating the sheet metal Special Agent Clarice Starling rests against. Her eyes are half closed, her head rolling gently along with the bad suspension in the van. Jump-out squad. She wondered why she kept agreeing to do this. She opens her eyes and looks over at the man next to her, resting in a similar manner. A small smile lights her face as she looks at the fatigues that cover his body. Definitely couldn't see that tattoo through the fatigue shirt. John Brigham, yeah, that was the reason she kept doing this. She shifts uncomfortably under the weight of her Kevlar vest, realizing that the shoulder pads sewn into her fatigue shirt don't really help much. 

She reaches for her water bottle and takes a swig from it, leaning as the van turns a corner. The other occupants of the van also sit grim faced. Made up of a joint team of FBI and BATF agents. Same as always. She bumps Brigham's shoulder as the van goes through a dip a little too fast, causing him to open his eyes and look at her. He smiles before closing them again. Clarice sips her water and closes her eyes too. Two years had passed since her fateful night. Had it really been that long? When she pauses to think about it, it seems like it could have happened last week. As she thinks back, Clarice becomes intensely aware of her bra rubbing against the scar on her back. Five inches wide, running from just below her shoulders to the top of her buttocks. It looks like it was made by precisely the instrument that had done it: a cheese grater. She had an aversion to them now, driving Delia nuts by insisting that they buy the already shredded cheese at the store. The things we did for peace of mind.

The next memory is the part that disturbs her slightly more. She still wakes up in the night, swearing that he is still kneeling beside her bed, brushing the hair out of her face. The scarred left hand, it had dawned on her much later that he no longer had a sixth finger, brushing her temple. And the kiss. No, she could not forget the kiss as he had whispered good bye. Again, a single tear begins to slip from her eye as it had that night. She can see him again, clear as day, slipping the Harpy back into the pocket of his leather jacket and walking out the bedroom door. Minutes later, she had heard the sound of sirens coming up the street. He was gone, and they wouldn't find him, she knew that even before Crawford had told her in the hospital a day later.

Back to him, she feels the van rock to a stop at a stoplight as she thinks. He had said something to her before he had left, when he had said goodbye. She had reached out to him at that point, protesting.

"You can't leave."

"But I must, Clarice. Do understand."

"But…"

"Goodbyes aren't forever, I assure you." and with that he was gone. Little did Clarice know, that tomorrow's events would change everything for them, and prove his line to be true.

*****


End file.
